THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


THE  UAWOItm  EDITION 


S  H  I  K  L  E  Y 


BY 

CHARLOTTE  \JJR  O  N  T  E 

(CURRKR  BELL) 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BT 

MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER    it    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


THE  BRONTE  NOVELS 

Haworth  Edition 

JANE   EYRE 

SHIRLEY 

VILLETTE 

THE   PROFESSOR   AND   POEMS 

WUTHERING   HEIGHTS 

TENANT   OF   WILDFELL   HALL 

MRS.  GASKELL'S  LIFE  OF 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 

Prefaces  by  Mrs.  Humphry   Ward 
Illustrated  Crown  8vo 


HARPER   &    BROTHERS 
ESTABLISHED  1817 


Copyright,  1890,  by  HARPER  i  BKOTHMS. 


Printed  in  ths  United  States  of  America 
O-B 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION ix 

I.     LEVITICAL 1 

II.    THE  WAGGONS 16 

III.  MB.  YORKE 34 

IV.  MR.  YORKE  (continued] 44 

V.    HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE 57 

VI.     CORIOLANUS 75 

VII.    THE  CURATES  AT  TEA 98 

VIII.     NOAH  AND  MOSES 128 

IX.     BRIARMAINS 146 

X.     OLD  MAIDS 171 

XI.      FlELDHEAD 191 

XII.     SHIRLEY  AND  CAROLINE 211 

XIII.  FURTHER  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  235 

XIV.  SHIRLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WORKS  .  204 
XV.     MR.  DONNE'S  EXODUS 280 

XVI.     WHITSUNTIDE 296 

XVII.     THE  SCHOOL-FEAST 309 

XVIII.  WHICH  THE  GENTEEL  READER  is  RECOM- 
MENDED TO  SKIP,  Low  PERSONS  BEING 

HERE   INTRODUCED   ....  327 


VI 


SHIRLEY 


CH1FTKK  MOB 

XIX.    A  SUMMER  NIGHT 340 

XX.     TO-MORROW 3,58 

XXI.     MRS.  PRYOR 373 

XXII.     Two  LIVES 393 

XXIII.  AN  EVENING  OUT 404 

XXIV.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  427 
XXV.     THE  WEST  WIND  BLOWS 449 

XXVI.     OLD  COPY-BOOKS 458 

XXVII.    THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING     ....  479 

XXVIII.     PHCEBE 506 

XXIX.     Louis  MOORE 530 

XXX.      RUSHEDGE,  A   CONFESSIONAL     ....  540 

XXXI.     UNCLE  AND  NIECE 557 

XXXII.     THE     SCHOOLBOY     AND     THE    WOOD- 
NYMPH    576 

XXXIII.  MARTIN'S  TACTICS 589 

XXXIV.  CASE  OF  DOMESTIC  PERSECUTION. — RE- 

MARKABLE INSTANCE  OF  Pious  PER- 
SEVERANCE IN  THE  DISCHARGE  OF 

RELIGIOUS  DUTIES 602 

XXXV.     WHEREIN   MATTERS  MAKE  SOME  PROG- 
RESS,  BUT   NOT   MUCH 611 

XXXVI.     WRITTEN'  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM     .     .     .  626 

XXXVII.     THE  WINDING-UP  .  651 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE  TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST 

EDITION Page  xxvii 

Views  of  places  described  in  the  work,  reproduced  from  photo- 
graphs taken  by  Mr.   W.  R.  Bland  of  Duffield,  Derby, 
in  conjunction  ivith  Mr.  C.  Barrow-Keene  of  Derby : 
RED  HOUSE,  GOMEKSAL  (front}  (Briar- 
mains)     Frontispiece 

HARTSHEAD  CHURCH  (Nunnely  Church)  To  face  page      4 
RED  HOUSE,  GOMERSAL    (from  the  gar- 
den) (Briarmains) "  150 

OAKWELL  HALL,    NEAR   BIRSTALL  (the 

approach)  (Ficldhead) "  192 

OAKWELL  HALL,  NEAR  BIRSTALL  (gen- 
eral view)  (Ficldhead) "  196 

INTERIOR  OF  OAKWELL  HALL  (Fieldhead)  "  200 

OAKWELL  HALL  (interior)  (Fieldhead)  .  "          206 

OAKWELL  HALL  (front)  (Ficldhead)     .  "          212 

OAKWELL  HALL  (the  garden)  (Fieldhead)  "  294 

BIRSTALL  CHURCH  (Kriarfidd  Church)  .  "           606 

The  tower  only  remain*  of  the  church  described. 


INTRODUCTION 


'  SHIRLEY*  was  published  in  the  autumn  of  1849,  two 
years  after  the  appearance  of  '  Jane  Eyre.'  No  book 
was  ever  written  under  more  pathetic,  more  torturing 
conditions.  It  was  begun  very  soon  after  the  publica- 
tion of  '  Jane  Eyre,'  amid  the  first  rushings  of  the  blast 
of  fame ;  it  was  continued  all  through  those  miserable 
and  humiliating  months  of  1848,  when  the  presence  of 
Branwell  at  the  parsonage  was  a  perpetual  shadow  on 
his  sisters'  lives,  when  they  never  knew  what  a  day 
might  bring  forth  and  would  lie  trembling  and  wake- 
ful at  night,  listening  for  sounds  from  their  father's 
room  where  Branwell  slept  —  Branwell  who  had  often 
threatened  them  in  the  delirium  of  an  opium-eater  and 
a  drunkard  that  either  his  father  or  he  would  be  dead 
by  the  morning. 

'Wuthering  Heights'  and  *  Agnes  Grey'  had  ap- 
peared in  December  1847,  a  few  weeks  after  'Jane 
Eyre.'  During  1848  they  seem  to  have  been  generally 
regarded  as  earlier  efforts  from  the  pen  of  the  writer  of 
'  Jane  Eyre ' ;  and  it  was  this  misconception,  in  fact, 
which  led  to  the  first  hurried  visit  of  Charlotte  and 
Anne  to  London  in  July,  when  Charlotte  put  into  the 


x  SHIRLEY 

hands  of  her  astonished  publisher  the  letter  from  him- 
self, addressed  to  Currer  Bell,  which  had  reached  lia- 
worth  Parsonage  the  day  before,  and  so,  nine  months 
after  its  publication,  disclosed  the  secret  of  'Jane 
Eyre.' 

In  these  first  interviews  with  her  publisher  —  thence- 
forward her  friend  also — she  was  able  to  tell  him  that 
4  Shirley,'  her  second  story,  was  well  advanced.  The 
second  volume,  indeed,  was  nearly  finished  by  Septem- 
ber, when  Bran  well  died.  The  end  of  the  year,  or  the 
beginning  of  the  next,  should  have  seen  its  publication. 
The  poor  sisters  may  well  have  hoped,  now  that  Bran- 
well's  vices  and  sufferings  distracted  them  no  more,  to 
pass  into  quieter  and  happier  hours,  hours  of  home  peace 
and  fruitful  work. 

Alas !  one  needs  only  to  put  down  the  bare  dates  and 
facts  of  the  six  months  that  followed,  to  realise  the  havoc 
that  they  made  at  once  in  Charlotte's  heart,  and  in  the 
history  of  English  genius.  Emily,  the  strong,  indomi- 
table Emily — who  had  borne  with  Bran  well  throughout 
more  patiently,  more  indulgently  than  the  other  two- 
developed  tuberculosis,  the  family  scourge,  at  the  very 
moment  of  Bran  well's  last  struggle,  and  she  left  the 
house  only  once  after  his  death.  The  tragic,  the  unbear- 
able story  of  those  three  months,  during  which  Emily 
fought  with  death  and  would  let  no  one  help  her,  has 
been  often  told.  The  memory  of  them  haunts  any  visitor 
to  the  little  parsonage  to-day.  As  one  mounts  the  stone 
staircase,  witli  one's  hand  on  the  old  rail,  suddenly  ghosts 
are  there.  Emily  mounts  before  one,  clinging  to  the 
rail,  dragging  her  wasted  frame  from  step  to  step.  The 
laboured  breath  sounds  once  more  through  the  small, 


xi 

quiet  house,  and  the  sisters  in  the  dining-room  below 
turn  to  each  other  in  misery  as  they  hear  it.  For  it  is 
Emily's  spirit  that  still  holds  the  parsonage ;  amid  all 
the  memories  of  the  house  —  hers,  fierce,  passionate,  in- 
scrutable— is  still  pre-eminent.  For  she  is  the  mystery. 
The  others '  abide  our  question.'  We  can  know  Charlotte 
and  understand  poor  Anne  ;  we  shall  never  either  know 
or  understand  Emily. 

For  three  months  she  battled  for  her  life,  in  her  own 
cruel  way.  The  sisters,  -vho  saw  her  perishing,  were 
helpless.  She  would  accept  nothing  at  their  hands,  and 
when  the  last  whisper  came — '  If  you  send  for  a  doctor 
I  will  see  him  now' — it  was  too  late.  The  suffering  of 
the  elder  sister  has  left  many  piteous  traces  in  her  let- 
ters, and  in  'Shirley '  itself.  'Moments  so  dark  as  these 
I  have  never  known,'  —  she  writes  on  the  very  morning 
of  Emily's  death  —  'I  think  Emily  seems  the  nearest 
thing  to  my  heart  in  the  world.'  And  when  Emily 
is  gone,  and  Anne  also  has  set  her  feet  upon  the  road 
that  leads  to  the  last  shadow,  Charlotte's  poor  heart  is 
crushed  between  longing  for  the  dead  and  fear  for  the 
living.  She  talks  in  March  1849  —  three  months  after 
Emily's  death,  two  months  before  Anne's  —  of  the 
'intense  attachment'  with  which  'our  hearts  clung  to 
Emily,'  and  then  she  adds  :  '  she  was  scarce  buried  when 
Anne's  health  failed  —  her  decline  is  gradual  and  fluc- 
tuating, but  its  nature  is  not  doubtful.'  Yet  in  these 
spring  days,  between  the  two  deaths,  she  has  taken  up 
her  pen  again.  And  she  is  cheered  by  the  praise  given 
to  the  early  volumes  of  '  Shirley '  by  Mr.  Smith  and  Mr. 
Williams.  'Oh!  if  Anne  were  well,'  she  cries,  'if  the 
void  death  has  left  were  a  little  closed  up,  if  the  dreary 


xii  SHIRLEY 

word  nevermore  would  cease  sounding  in  my  ears,  I  think 
I  could  yet  do  something.' 

But  May  comes,  and  Charlotte  takes  Anne  to  Scar- 
borough, thinks  no  more  of  her  book  —  hangs  day  by 
day,  and  hour  by  hour,  on  tne  last  looks  and  words  of 
this  gentle  creature,  this  ardent  Christian,  who  yet  is  of 
the  indomitable  Broiite  clay  like  the  rest  of  them,  and 
leaves  behind  her  no  record  of  soft  and  pious  imagin- 
ings, but  a  warning  tale  of  drunkenness  and  profligacy, 
steadily  carried  out  through  all  its  bitter  truth.  By  the 
end  of  May,  Anne  is  in  her  grave,  and  Charlotte  stays 
on  a  while  by  the  sea,  waiting  for  the  mere  passage  of 
the  days  that  may  give  her  strength  to  go  home  and 
take  up  her  work  again. 

By  the  beginning  of  July,  however,  she  had  returned 
to  Haworth.  She  writes  to  her  friend  in  words  that 
paint  the  very  heart  of  grief  : 

'  All  received  me  with  an  affection  that  should  have 
consoled.  The  dogs  were  in  strange  ecstasy.  I  am  cer- 
tain they  regarded  me  as  the  harbinger  of  others.  The 
dumb  creatures  thought  that  as  I  was  returned,  those 
who  had  been  so  long  absent  were  not  far  behind. 

'I  left  papa  soon,  and  went  into  the  dining-room: 
I  shut  the  door — I  tried  to  be  glad  that  I  was  come 
home.  .  .  But  ...  I  felt  that  the  house  was  all  silent 
—the  rooms  were  all  empty.  I  remembered  where  the 
three  were  laid — in  what  narrow  dark  dwellings — never 
more  to  reappear  on  earth.  .  .  .  The  agony  that  was  to  be 
undergone,  and  was  not  to  be  avoided,  came  on.  I  under- 
went it,  and  passed  a  dreary  evening  and  night,  and  a 
mournful  morrow.  To-day  I  am  better.' 

During  the   weeks  that  followed  she  resolutely  set 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

herself  to  finish  'Shirley,'  and  some  months  later  she 
beurs  passionate  testimony  to  the  supporting,  stimulating 
power  of  her  great  gift.  '  The  faculty  of  imagination,' 
she  says  to  Mr.  Williams,  'lifted  me  when  I  was  sinking, 
three  months  ago  (i.e.  immediately  after  the  death  of 
Anne);  its  active  exercise  has  kept  my  head  above  wa- 
ter since.' 

It  was  at  the  24th  chapter  of  her  story  that  she  began 
again ;  it  was  with  the  description  of  Caroline's  wrestle 
with  death,  Caroline's  discovery  of  her  mother,  Caroline's 
rescue  from  the  destroyer  at  the  hands  of  Tenderness 
and  Hope,  that  the  poor  forsaken  sister  filled  her  first 
lonely  hours,  cheating  her  grief  by  dreams,  by  '  making 
out,'  as  she  had  often  consoled  the  physical  and  moral 
trouble  of  her  girlhood.  Mrs.  Pryor's  agony  of  nursing 
and  of  dread  is  Charlotte's. 

Not  always  do  those  who  dare  such  divine  conflict  prevail. 
Night  after  night  the  sweat  of  agony  may  burst  dark  on  the 
forehead ;  the  supplicant  may  cry  for  mercy  with  that  sound- 
less voice  the  soul  utters  when  its  appeal  is  to  the  Invisible. 
'  Spare  my  beloved/  it  may  implore.  '  Heal  my  life's  life. 
Rend  not  from  me  what  long  affection  entwines  with  my 
whole  nature.  God  of  heaven — bend — hear — be  clement !' 
And  after  this  cry  and  strife,  the  sun  may  rise  and  see  him 
worsted.  That  opening  morn  which  used  to  salute  him 
with  the  whisper  of  zephyrs,  the  carol  of  skylarks,  may 
breathe  as  its  first  accents,  from  the  dear  lips  which  colour 
and  heat  have  quitted — '  Oh  !  I  have  had  a  suffering  night. 
This  morning  I  am  worse.  I  have  tried  to  rise.  I  cannot. 
Dreams  I  am  unused  to  have  troubled  me.* 

Then  the  watcher  approaches  the  patient's  pillow,  and 
sees  a  new  and  strange  moulding  of  the  familiar  features, 


xiv  SHIRLEY 

feels  at  once  that  the  insufferable  moment  draws  nigh, 
knows  that  it  is  God's  will  his  idol  shall  be  broken,  and 
bends  his  head,  and  subdues  his  soul  to  the  sentence  he 
cannot  avert,  and  scarce  can  bear. 

Happy  Mrs.  Pryor  !  She  was  still  praying,  unconscious 
that  the  summer  sun  hung  above  the  hills,  when  her  child 
softly  woke  in  her  arms.  No  piteous  unconscious  moaning 
— sound  which  so  wastes  onr  strength  that,  even  if  we  have 
sworn  to  be  firm,  a  rush  of  unconquerable  fears  sweeps  away 
the  oath, — preceded  her  waking.  No  space  of  deaf  apathy 
followed.  The  first  words  spoken  were  not  those  of  one 
becoming  estranged  from  this  world,  and  already  permitted 
to  stray  at  times  into  realms  foreign  to  the  living.  Caroline 
evidently  remembered  with  clearness  what  had  happened. 

Thus  did  poor  Charlotte,  dreaming  alone,  make  use  of 
her  own  pain  for  the  imagining  of  joy  ;  thus,  sitting  in 
her  '  lonely  room — the  clock  ticking  loud  in  a  still  house,' 
did  she  comfort  her  own  desolation  by  this  exquisite  and 
tender  picture  of  mother  and  daughter  reunited,  made 
known  to  each  other,  after  years  of  separation  and  under 
the  shadow  of  death.  Caroline  Helstone  shall  not  be 
left  in  darkness  and  forlorn!  Charlotte  will  bring  her 
to  the  light — place  her  in  loving  shelter. 

Mrs.  Pryor  held  Caroline  to  her  bosom ;  she  cradled  her 
in  her  arms ;  she  rocked  her  softly,  as  if  lulling  a  young 
child  to  sleep. 

'  My  mother  !  My  own  mother  !'  The  offspring  nestled 
to  the  parent :  that  parent,  feeling  the  endearment  and  hear- 
ing the  appeal,  gathered  her  closer  still.  She  covered  her 
with  noiseless  kisses :  she  murmured  love  over  her,  like  a 
cushat  fostering  its  young. 


INTRODUCTION  iv 

Then  from  the  ecstasy  of  mother  and  child,  the  '  maker' 
passed  on  to  the  love-story  of  Shirley  and  Louis  Moore 
— Shirley  who  stood  in  Charlotte's  mind,  as  she  herself 
tells  us,  for  Emity.  Emily  lay  under  the  floor  of  the 
old  church,  a  stone's  throw  from  Charlotte,  as  she  wrote ; 
and  Charlotte,  looking  up  at  each  passing  sound,  would 
be  clutched  anew,  hour  after  hour,  by  the  thought  of 
Emily's  pain,  Emily's  death-anguish,  the  waste  of  Emily's 
genius.  But  as  the  small  writing  covered  the  advancing 
page,  Emily  lived  again — grown  rich,  beautiful,  happy. 
Her  dog,  old  Tartar,  rambled  beside  her;  the  glow  of 
health  is  on  her  cheek ;  she  has  a  lover,  and  a  wedding- 
dress  ;  length  of  days  and  of  joy — both  are  secured  to 
her.  One  may  say  what  one  will  of  these  last  chapters 
of  '  Shirley.'  Louis  Moore  is  no  favourite  with  any 
reader  of  the  Brontes ;  his  courting  of  Shirley  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  realities  either  of  love  or  of  the  male 
human  being;  his  very  creation  involves  a  certain  dull- 
ing and  weakening  of  Charlotte's  faculty  —  a  certain 
morbidness  also.  But  those  who  recall  the  circumstances 
of  'Shirley's'  composition  will  for  ever  forgive  him; 
they  will  remember  how  tired  and  trembling  was  the 
hand  that  drew  him ;  how  he  stood  in  Charlotte's  sad 
fancy  for  protecting  strength,  and  passionate  homage, 
for  all  that  Emily  would  never  know,  and  all  that  the 
woman  in  Charlotte,  at  that  desolate  moment  of  her  life, 
most  yearned  to  know. 


xvi  SHIRLEY 


II 

There  can  be  no  question,  however,  that  'Shirley,' 
from  a  literary  point  of  view,  suffered  seriously  from  the 
tension  and  distraction  of  mind  amid  which  it  was  com- 
posed. It  was  neither  the  unity,  the  agreeable  old- 
fashioned  unity  of  'Jane  Eyre,'  nor,  as  a  whole,  the 
passionate  truth  of  '  Villette.'  In  the  very  centre  of  the 
book,  the  story  suddenly  gives  way.  The  love-story  of 
Kobert  and  Caroline  has  somehow  to  be  delayed ;  and 
one  divines  that  the  writer --for  whom  life  has  tem- 
porarily made  impossible  that  fiery  concentration  of  soul, 
in  which  a  year  or  two  later  she  wrote  '  Villette ' — hesi- 
tates as  to  the  love-story  of  Shirley  and  Louis.  She  does 
not  see  her  way ;  she  gropes  a  little ;  and  that  angel  of 
imagination,  to  which  she  pays  so  many  a  glowing  tribute 
in  the  course  of  her  work,  seems  to  droop  its  wing  beside 
her,  and  move  listlessly  through  two  or  three  chapters, 
which  do  little  more  than  mark  time  till  the  divine  breath 
returns.  These  are  the  chapters  headed  '  Shirley  seeks 
to  be  saved  by  works,' '  Whitsuntide,'  *  The  School  Feast.' 
They  are  really  scene -shifting  chapters  while  the  new 
act  is  preparing ;  and  the  interval  is  long  and  the  ma- 
chinery a  little  clumsy.  '  Villette'  also  passes  from  one 
motive  to  another,  from  Lucy's  first  love  for  Graham 
Bretton,  to  her  second  love  for  Paul  Eraanuel.  But  in. 
'  Villette '  the  transition  is  made  with  admirable  swift- 
ness. As  Graham  Bretton  recedes,  parri  passu,  Paul 
Emanuel  advances.  The  two  themes  are  interwoven  ; 
the  book  never  ceases  to  be  an  organism  ;  there  is  no 
faltering  in  the  writer,  no  uncertainty  in  the  touch. 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

Invention  full  and  warm  flows  through  it  in  a  never 
slackening  tide  ;  there  are  few  or  none  of  the  cold  and 
superfluous  passages  that  disfigure  the  middle  region  of 

*  Shirley.' 

Signs  of  the  same  momentary  failure  in  the  artist's 
fusing  and  vivifying  power  are  numerous  also  in  the 
style  of  '  Shirley,'  as  compared  with  the  style  of  '  Yil- 
lette.'  Commonplaces  writ  large;  a  tendency  to  pro- 
duce pages  of  '  copy,'  pages  that  any  '  descriptive  report- 
er' could  do  as  well ;  an  Extravagance  which  is  not  power, 
but  rather  a  kind  of  womanish  violence ;  and  a  humour 
j\lso  that  sometimes  leaves  the  scene  on  which  it  is  turned 
colder  and  more  laboured  than  it  found  it  —  these  are 
some  of  the  faults  that  attach  especially  to  the  central 
scenes  of '  Shirley,'  to  the  many  pages  devoted  to  Shirley's 
charitable  plans,  to  the  school-treat,  to  the  curates,  to  the 
old  maids.  Take  these  sentences,  for  instance,  from  the 
account  of  Miss  Ainley :  '  Sincerity  is  never  ludicrous  ;  it 
is  always  respectable.  Whether  truth — be  it  religious  or 
moral  truth  —  speak  eloquently  and  in  well -chosen  lan- 
guage or  not,  its  voice  should  be  heard  with  reverence. 
Let  those  who  cannot  nicely,  and  with  certainty,  discern 
the  difference  between  those  of  hypocrisy  and  those  of 
sincerity,  never  presume  to  laugh  at  all,  lest  they  should 
have  the  miserable  misfortune  to  laugh  in  the  wrong 
place  and  commit  impiety  when  they  think  they  are 
achieving  wit.' 

A  great  creative  artist,  an  artist  capable  of  writing  a 

*  Villette'  does  not  drop  into  surplusage  of  this  kind,  un- 
less there  is  some  sterilising  and  hostile  influence  over- 
shadowing her.     In  her  happy  hour  she  will  fall  upon 
sentences  like  this  and  sweep  them  from  the  page,  or 


xviii  SHIRLEY 

rather  she  will  never  conceive  them.  Humble  truth, 
modest  piety,  the  scorner  to  be  scorned  —  no  need  then 
to  talk  or  prate  about  them.  She  sees  them  in  act  as 
they  live,  and  move,  and  walk ;  and  she  records  the 
vision — not  any  personal  opinion  about  them. 


Ill 

Nevertheless,  it  may  be  argued,  and  with  truth,  that 
even  these  slacker  and  more  diffuse  chapters  of  the  story 
have  a  real  and  abiding  interest  for  the  student  of  Eng- 
lish manners  —  that  this  clerical,  middle-class,  country 
life  was  intimately  known  to  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  that 
the  portraits  of  Mr.  Helstone,  Cyril  Hall,  the  Curates, 
and  the  rest,  have  at  least  an  historical  interest.  And 
indeed  the  matter,  the  subject,  is  rich  enough  ;  it  is 
the  matter  of  Jane  Austen,  of  'Middlemareh,'  and  the 
'Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,'  of  Trollope  and  Mrs.  Gaskell, 
of  half  the  eminent  and  most  of  the  readable  novels  of 
English  life.  Charlotte  Bronte  presents  it  with  force 
and  knowledge,  often  with  bursts  of  poetic  or  satiric  ob- 
servation, but  without  either  the  humour  or  the  charm 
that  other  English  hands  have  been  able  to  give  it.  This 
country  and  clerical  life,  though  as  a  human  being  she 
was  part  of  it,  was  not  her  subject  in  literature  ;  let  any- 
one compare  the  relative  failure  of  'Shirley'  with  the 
unwavering  power  and  mastery  of  'Villette.'  It  was 
in  the  play  of  personal  passion,  set  amid  the  foreign 
scenes  of  'Villette'  —  scenes  that  stirred  her  curiosity, 
her  wrath,  her  fancy,  as  novelty  and  change  must  al- 
ways stir  the  poetic,  as  distinguished  from  the  critical 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

or  humorous  genius,  that  Charlotte  at  last  found  her 
best,  her  crowning  opportunity. 

The  men,  for  instance,  of  *  Shirley,'  on  their  first  ap- 
pearance roused  a  protest  among  readers  and  reviewers 
that  can  only  be  repeated  now.  Among  them  Mr.  Hel- 
stone  makes,  on  the  whole,  the  best  impression.  Miss 
Bronte  drew  him  from  experience,  or  at  least  from  a 
germ  of  reality  sufficient  to  give  life  and  persuasiveness 
to  the  creation  that  sprang  from  it.  Mr.  Robersou,  of 
Heald's  Hall,  the  indomitable  fighting  parson  of  the 
thirties,  who  was  the  original  of  Helstone,  little  knew 
to  whom  he  was  preaching,  when  at  the  consecration  of 
a  church  near  Haworth  in  1826  he  numbered  among  his 
hearers  a  child  of  ten  years  old,  small,  sharp-faced,  with 
bright  dreamy  eyes.  '  I  never  saw  him  but  that  once,' 
Miss  Bronte  said  later  to  Mr.  Williams.  But  he  was 
known  to  her  father;  his  character  and  exploits  made 
an  impression  in  her  neighbourhood  ;  she  heard  much  of 
him,  and  probably  his  truculent  Tory  virtues  raised  him 
to  hero -height  in  the  fancy  of  an  infant  worshipper  of 
Wellington  and  hater  of  Lord  Grey.  This  was  not  much 
foundation,  but  it  was  enough.  Helstone  has  life  and 
truth ;  his  hardness  or  violence,  his  courtesies  and  his 
scorns,  his  rare  tendernesses,  his  unconquerable  reserves, 
his  smaller  habits  and  gestures  are  finely  studied,  finely 
rendered.  But  he  alone — and  Martin  Yorke — have  any 
convincing  veracious  quality  among  the  men  of  the  book. 
Mr.  Yorke  also  was  studied  from  life,  but  the  writer  has 
reproduced  only  the  incongruities  and  oddities  of  the 
character,  not  the  unity  of  the  man.  Robert  Moore  is 
ingeniously  imagined  and  often  interesting.  But  at  the 
critical  moment  of  the  book  the  cloud  of  sorrow  and  be- 


XT  SHIRLEY 

wilderraent  that  descended  on  the  mind  of  the  writer, 
dulling  nerve  and  vision,  blurs  him  also,  so  that  he  seems 
to  dissolve  and  break  up,  to  be  no  longer  a  man  and  an 
entity. 

And  Louis  Moore!  When  her  friendly  critics  in  Corn- 
hill,  Mr.  Williams  and  Mr.  Taylor,  sent  her  during  the 
progress  of  the  book — which  they  were  allowed  to  see 
in  manuscript — some  'complaints'  of  her  heroes,  Char- 
lotte answered  in  much  depression,  that  her  critics  were 
probably  justified.  '  When  I  write  about  women  I  am 
sure  of  my  ground — in  the  other  case  I  am  not  so  sure.' 
Anrl  once  or  twice,  in  meeting  criticisms  on  'Jane  E}Te' 
or  'Shirley,'  she  says  with  perfect  frankness  that  it  may 
all  be  very  true.  She  has  seen  too  little  of  society ; 
known  too  little  of  men.  Yet  all  the  time  she  had  with- 
in her  that  store  of  passionate  and  complete  observation, 
whence,  later  on,  Paul  Eraanuel  was  to  rise  and  have  his 
being.  And  she  was  by  no  means  meek  in  her  general 
estimate  of  the  power  of  women  to  describe  and  pene- 
trate men  in  fiction.  There  is  a  passage  in  '  Shirley ' 
where  Miss  Keeldar,  after  pouring  scorn  on  some  of 
the  well-known  heroines  of  men's  novels,  maintains, 
with  warmth,  that  in  fiction  women  read  men  more 
truly  than  men  are  able  to  read  women ;  and  one  hears 
through  her  animated  talk  the  voice  of  Charlotte  her- 
self. 

That  Charlotte  Bronte,  under  adequate  stimulus,  could 
draw  a  living  man  with  truth,  humour  and  variety,  Paul 
Emanuel  is  there  to  testify.  No  single  atom  of  true  ex- 
perience was  ever  lost  upon  her  genius.  But  her  shyness; 
and  silence  allowed  her  too  little  of  this  experience,  and 
in  the  pure  play  of  imagination  she  was  inferior,  in  deal. 


INTRODUCTION  xxl 

ing  with  character,  to  her  sister  Emily.  Emily  knew 
less  of  men  personally  than  Charlotte.  But  she  had  no 
illusions  about  them,  and  Charlotte  had  many.  Emily  is 
the  true  creator,  using  the  most  limited  material  in  the 
puissant,  detached  impersonal  way  that  belongs  only  to 
the  highest  gifts — the  way  of  Shakespeare.  Charlotte 
is  often  parochial,  womanish,  and  morbid  in  her  imagina- 
tion of  men  and  their  relation  to  women  ;  Emily  who  has 
known  two  men  only,  her  father  and  her  brother,  and 
derives  all  other  knowledge  of  the  sex  from  books,  from 
Tabby's  talk  in  the  kitchen,  from  the  forms  and  features 
she  passes  in  the  village  street,  or  on  the  moors — Emily 
can  create  a  Heathcliff,  a  Hareton  Earnshaw,  a  Joseph, 
an  Edgar  Linton,  with  equal  force,  passion,  and  indiffer- 
ence. All  of  them  up  to  a  certain  point,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  she  knows  nothing  of  certain  ground-truths  of 
life,  are  equally  false ;  but  beyond  that  point  all  have 
the  same  magnificent,  careless  truth  of  imagination.  She 
never  bowed  before  her  creatures,  in  a  sort  of  personal 
subjection  to  them,  as  Charlotte  did. 

Again,  nothing  is  more  curious  than  to  compare  Char- 
lotte Bronte's  conceptions  of  Rochester  and  the  two 
Moores,  her  painting  of  the  relations  between  these  heroes 
and  the  women  of  the  piece,  with  the  ideas  and  concep- 
tions of  George  Sand  in  almost  all  her  earlier  stories. 
To  Jane  Eyre,  Rochester  is  '  my  master '  from  first  to 
last;  Louis  Moore  is  the  tutor  and  the  tyrant  even  in 
love-making;  Paul  Emanuel,  for  all  his  foibles  and  tem- 
pers that  make  him  so  welcome  and  so  real,  is  still  in 
relation  to  the  woman  he  loves,  the  captor,  the  teacher, 
the  breaker-in.  And  there  is  plenty  of  evidence  in  Miss 
Bronte's  letters, and  in  what  is  known  of  her  married  life, 


xxii  SHIRLEY 

to  show  that  this,  in  fact,  was  her  own  personal  ideal. 
She  had  battled  with  the  world,  and  she  dreamed  of 
rest ;  she  had  been  forced  to  exercise  her  own  will  with 
so  strong  and  unceasing  an  effort,  that  the  thought  of 
dropping  the  tension  for  ever,  of  handing  all  judgment, 
all  choice,  over  to  another's  will,  became  delight ;  and, 
last  and  most  important,  what  she  did  not  know  she 
glorified.  But  George  Sand,  alas!  knew  too  much,  and 
knew  too  well.  No  schoolroom  imaginations  are  possible 
to  her.  The  men  she  creates  are  handled  with  a  large 
indulgence,  half  maternal,  half  poetic,  that  may  turn  to 
irony  or  to  reproach,  never  to  the  mere  woman's  self- 
surrender.  In  general,  as  M.  Faguet  says,  'elle  aime  les 
types  de  femmes  energiques  et  d'hommes  faibles,'  and 
this  preference  is  the  unconscious  reflection  of  her  own 
personal  history.  In  her  various  love  affairs  she  had 
always  found  herself  in  the  end  the  better  man;  she  had 
shaken  herself  free  from  fettering  claims  because  the 
artist  in  her  was  much  stronger  than  the  woman,  and 
the  man  of  the  present,  seen  in  his  actuality,  had  come 
to  seem  to  her  but  a  poor  creature.  She  dreamed  of  a 
man  of  the  future,  and  a  marriage  of  the  future.  Mean- 
while, the  men  she  imagines  and  describes  in  so  large  a 
number  of  her  novels,  the  relations  she  draws  between 
them  and  the  women  they  love,  betray  her  own  secret 
consciousness  of  power  and  ascendency.  Hence  Lelia 
and  Stenio,  Edrne  and  Mauprat,  Andre,  Simon,  and 
many  more. 

The  personal  contrast,  indeed,  between  the  two  writers, 
the  two  women,  can  hardly  be  conceived  too  sharply.  We 
shall  realise  it  a  little,  perhaps,  if  we  try  to  imagine 
George  Sand,  after  her  early  successes,  and  in  the  first 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

glow  of  fame,  marrying  a  country  curate,  without  a  tinge 
of  letters,  who  encouraged  his  wife  to  give  up  the  prac- 
tice of  novel-writing,  and  in  return  *  often  found  a  little 
work  for  her  to  do '  in  his  study  or  the  parish ;  if  we 
endeavour  to  think  of  her  as  submitting  without  a  mur- 
mur, and  finding  in  the  quiet  happiness  of  the  simplest 
domestic  life  reward  enough  for  the  suppression  of  her 
gift  and  the  taming  of  her  soul. 


IV 

On  the  other  hand— in  compensation — could  George 
Sand  have  imagined  or  drawn  a  Caroline  Helstone?  In 
all  her  work,  did  she  ever  penetrate  as  close  to  the  '  very 
pulse  of  the  machine'  as  Charlotte  Bronte  has  done  in 
this  picture  of  Caroline?  1  think  not.  For  delicacy,  poe- 
try, divination,  charm,  Caroline  stands  supreme  among 
the  women  of  Miss  Bronte's  gallery.  She  is  as  true  as 
Lucy  Snowe,  but  infinitely  more  delightful ;  she  has  the 
same  flower-like  purity  and  fragrance  as  Frances  in  the 
4  Professor,'  but  she  is  more  tangible,  more  varied  ;  she 
can  love  with  the  same  intensity  as  'Jane  Eyre,'  but  to 
intensity  she  adds  an  »therial  and  tender  grace  that 
Jane  must  do  without.  The  exquisite  quality  in  her  she 
shares  indeed  with  Paulina  in  '  Villette';  but  Paulina  is 
a  mere  sketch  compared  to  her.  From  the  moment  when 
in  her  '  soft  bloom '  she  first  enters  the  Moores'  sitting- 
room,  to  the  final  scene  when  Robert  graciously  rewards 
her  faith  and  affection  with  a  heart  far  below  her  deserts, 
she  is  all  woman  and  all  love.  It  is  conceivable  that  she, 
being  what  she  is,  should  have  felt  no  jealousy  of  Shirley; 


xxiv  SHIRLEY 

that  she  should  have  drooped  without  complaining;  that 
she  should  have  preferred  rather  to  die  than  hate ;  to  slip 
out  of  the  struggle  rather  than  make  a  selfish  claim.  Yet 
she  is  no  mere  bundle  of  virtues;  hers  is  no  insipid  or 
eclectic  goodness  like  that  of  Thackeray's  Lauras  and 
Amelias.  What  fortitude  and  courage  even  in  her  despair 
—  what  tenderness  in  her  relation  to  her  new-found 
mother — what  daring  in  the  dove,  when  the  heart  and 
its  rights  are  to  be  upheld ! 

'Love  a  crime  !  No,  Shirley:  love  is  a  divine  virtue — 
obtrusiveness  is  a  crime  ;  forwardness  is  a  crime  ;  and  both 
disgust :  but  love  !  —  no  purest  angel  need  blnsh  to  love  ! 
And  when  I  see  or  hear  either  man  or  woman  oonple  shame 
with  love,  I  know  their  minds  are  coarse,  their  associations 
debased.  .  .  .' 

'  You  sacrifice  three-fourths  of  the  world,  Caroline.* 

'  They  are  cold — they  are  cowardly — they  are  stupid,  on 
the  subject,  Shirley  !  They  never  loved  — they  never  were 
loved  !' 

'  Thou  art  right,  Lina  !  And  in  their  dense  ignorance 
they  blaspheme  living  fire,  seraph -brought  from  a  divine 
altar.' 

*  They  confound  it  with  sparks  mounting  from  Tophet !' 

Shirley  Keeldar,  too,  is  full  of  charm,  though,  as  a  con- 
ception, she  has  hardly  the  roundness,  the  full  and  deli- 
cate truth  of  Caroline.  But  the  two  complete  each  other, 
and  Charlotte  Bronte  has  expressed  in  the  picture  of 
Shirley  that  wilder  and  more  romantic  element  of  her 
own  being,  which  found  a  little  later  far  richer  and 
stronger  utterance  in  '  Yillette.'  Caroline,  Shirley,  Mrs. 
Pry  or  —  delicacy,  wildness,  family  affection — these  in- 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

deed  are  the  three  aspects  of  Charlotte's  personality, 
Charlotte's  genius.  So  that  they  are  children  of  her 
own  heart's  blood,  spirits  born  of  her  own  essence,  and 
warm  with  her  own  life. 


Thus  again  we  return  once  more  to  the  central  claim, 
the  redeeming  spell  of  all  Charlotte  Bronte's  work  — 
which  lies,  not  so  much  in  the  thing  written,  to  speak 
in  paradoxes,  as  in  the  temper  and  heart  of  the  writer. 
If  '  Shirley,'  wherever  the  women  of  the  story  are  chiefly 
concerned,  is  richer  even  than  '  Jane  Eyre'  in  poetry  and 
unexpectedness,  in  a  sort  of  fresh  and  sparkling  charm 
like  that  of  a  moor  in  sunshine,  it  is  because  Charlotte 
Bronte  herself  has  grown  and  mellowed  in  the  interval ; 
because  she  has  thought  more,  felt  more,  trembled  still 
more  deeply  under  the  pain  and  beauty  of  the  world. 
Untoward  circumstance  indeed  makes  'Shirley'  less 
than  a  masterpiece,  distracts  the  thinking  brain  and 
patient  hand,  is  the  parent  here  and  there  of  blurs  and 
inequalities.  But  this  is,  so  to  speak,  an  accident.  Grief 
and  weariness  of  spirit  dim  the  clear  eyes,  or  mar  the  ut- 
terance of  the  story-teller  from  time  to  time.  But  the 
steady  growth  of  genius  is  there  all  the  same.  '  Shirley ' 
is  not  so  good  a  stor}',  not  so  remarkable  an  achievement 
as  '  Jane  Eyre,'  but  it  contains  none  the  less  the  promise 
and  potency  of  higher  things  than  'Jane  Eyre' — of  the 
brilliant,  the  imperishable  '  Villette.' 

MARY  A.  WAED. 


Facsimile  of  the  Title-page  of  the  First  Edition 

SHIRLEY. 

0 


BY 
CURRER    BELL, 

AUTHOR    OF    "JANE    EYRE." 


IN   THREE    VOLUMES. 
VOL.    I. 


LONDON: 
SMITH,  ELDER  AND  CO.,  65,  CORNHILI* 

1849. 


SHIRLEY 

CHAPTEK  I 

LEVITICAL 

OP  late  years,  an  abundant  shower  of  curates  has  fallen 
upon  the  north  of  England  :  they  lie  very  thick  on  the  hills  ; 
every  parish  has  one  or  more  of  them  ;  they  are  young  enough 
to  be  very  active,  and  ought  to  be  doing  a  great  deal  of  good. 
But  not  of  late  years  are  we  about  to  speak ;  we  are  going 
back  to  the  beginning  of  this  century :  late  years- — present 
years  are  dusty,  sun-burnt,  hot,  arid;  we  will  evade  the 
noon,  forget  it  in  siesta,  pass  the  mid-day  in  slumber,  and 
dream  of  dawn. 

If  you  think,  from  this  prelude,  that  anything  like  a 
romance  is  preparing  for  you,  reader,  you  never  were  more 
mistaken.  Do  you  anticipate  sentiment,  and  poetry,  and 
reverie?  Do  you  expect  passion,  and  stimulus,  and  melo- 
drama ?  Calm  your  expectations ;  reduce  them  to  a  lowly 
standard.  Something  real,  cool,  and  solid,  lies  before  you ; 
something  unromantic  as  Monday  morning,  when  all  who 
have  work  wake  with  the  consciousness  that  they  must  rise 
and  betake  themselves  thereto.  It  is  not  positively  affirmed 
that  you  shall  not  have  a  taste  of  the  exciting,  perhaps 
towards  the  middle  and  close  of  the  meal,  but  it  is  resolved 
that  the  first  dish  set  upon  the  table  shall  be  one  that  a 
Catholic — ay,  even  an  Anglo-Catholic — might  eat  on  Good 
Friday  in  Passion  Week ;  it  shall  be  cold  lentils  and  vinegar 


2  SH1BLEY 

without  oil ;  it  shall  be  unleavened  bread  with  bitter  herbs, 
and  no  roast  lamb. 

Of  late  years,  I  say,  an  abundant  shower  of  curates  has 
fallen  upon  the  north  of  England ;  but  in  eighteen-hundred- 
eleven-twelve  that  affluent  rain  had  not  descended  :  curates 
were  scarce  then  :  there  was  no  Pastoral  Aid — no  Additional 
Curates'  Society  to  stretch  a  helping  hand  to  worn-out  old 
rectors  and  incumbents,  and  give  them  the  wherewithal  to 
pay  a  vigorous  young  colleague  from  Oxford  or  Cambridge. 
The  present  successors  of  the  apostles,  disciples  of  Dr.  Pusey 
and  tools  of  the  Propaganda,  were  at  that  time  being  hatched 
under  cradle-blankets,  or  undergoing  regeneration  by  nursery- 
baptism  in  wash-hand-basins.  You  could  not  have  guessed 
by  looking  at  any  one  of  them  that  the  Italian-ironed  double 
frills  of  its  net-cap  surrounded  the  brows  of  a  pre-ordained, 
specially  sanctified  successor  of  St.  Paul,  St.  Peter,  or 
St.  John  ;  nor  could  you  have  foreseen  in  the  folds  of  its 
long  night-gown  the  white  surplice  in  which  it  was  hereafter 
cruelly  to  exercise  the  souls  of  its  parishioners,  and  strangely 
to.  nonplus  its  old-fashioned  vicar  by  flourishing  aloft  in  a 
pulpit  the  shirt-like  raiment  which  had  never  before  waved 
higher  than  the  reading-desk. 

Yet  even  in  those  days  of  scarcity  there  were  curates  : 
the  precious  plant  was  rare,  but  it  might  be  found.  A  certain 
favoured  district  in  the  West  Biding  of  Yorkshire  could 
boast  three  rods  of  Aaron  blossoming  within  a  circuit  of 
twenty  miles.  You  shall  see  them,  reader.  Step  into  this 
neat  garden-house  on  the  skirts  of  Whinbury,  walk  forward 
into  the  little  parlour — there  they  are  at  dinner.  Allow  me 
to  introduce  them  to  you  : — Mr.  Donne,  curate  of  Whinbury ; 
Mr.  Malone,  curate  of  Briarfield ;  Mr.  Sweeting,  curate  of 
Nunnely.  These  are  Mr.  Donne's  lodgings,  being  the 
habitation  of  one  John  Gale,  a  small  clothier.  Mr.  Donne 
has  kindly  invited  his  brethren  to  regale  with  him.  You  and 
I  will  join  the  party,  see  what  is  to  be  seen,  and  hear  what  is 
to  be  heard.  At  present,  however,  they  are  only  eating ; 
and  while  they  eat  we  will  talk  aside. 


LEVITICAL  3 

These  gentlemen  are  in  the  bloom  of  youth  ;  they  possess 
all  the  activity  of  that  interesting  age — an  activity  which 
their  moping  old  vicars  would  fain  turn  into  the  channel  of 
their  pastoral  duties,  often  expressing  a  wish  to  see  it  ex- 
pended in  a  diligent  superintendence  of  the  schools,  and  in 
frequent  visits  to  the  sick  of  their  respective  parishes.  But 
the  youthful  Levites  feel  this  to  be  dull  work  ;  they  prefer 
lavishing  their  energies  on  a  course  of  proceeding,  which, 
though  to  other  eyes  it  appear  more  heavy  with  ennui,  more 
cursed  with  monotony,  than  the  toil  of  the  weaver  at  his 
loom,  seems  to  yield  them  an  unfailing  supply  of  enjoyment 
and  occupation. 

I  allude  to  a  rushing  backwards  and  forwards,  amongst 
themselves,  to  and  from  their  respective  lodgings  :  not  a 
round — but  a  triangle  of  visits,  which  they  keep  up  all  the 
year  through,  in  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  autumn. 
Season  and  weather  make  no  difference ;  with  unintelligible 
zeal  they  dare  snow  and  hail,  wind  and  rain,  mire  and  dust, 
to  go  and  dine,  or  drink  tea,  or  sup  with  each  other.  What 
attracts  them,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  It  is  not  friend- 
ship ;  for  whenever  they  meet  they  quarrel.  It  is  not 
religion  ;  the  thing  is  never  named  amongst  them  :  theology 
they  may  discuss  occasionally,  but  piety — never.  It  is  not 
the  love  of  eating  and  drinking ;  each  might  have  as  good  a 
joint  and  pudding,  tea  as  potent,  and  toast  as  succulent,  at 
his  own  lodgings,  as  is  served  to  him  at  his  brother's.  Mrs. 
Gale,  Mrs.  Hogg,  and  Mrs.  Whipp — their  respective  land- 
ladies— affirm  that  '  it  is  just  for  nought  else  but  to  give  folk 
trouble.'  By  '  folk  '  the  good  ladies  of  course  mean  them- 
selves ;  for  indeed  they  are  kept  in  a  continual  '  fry  '  by  this 
system  of  mutual  invasion. 

Mr.  Donne  and  his  guests,  as  I  have  said,  are  at  dinner ; 
Mrs.  Gale  waits  on  them,  but  a  spavk  of  the  hot  kitchen  fire 
is  in  her  eye.  She  considers  that  the  privilege  of  inviting  a 
friend  to  a  meal  occasionally,  without  additional  charge  (a 
privilege  included  in  the  terms  on  which  she  lets  her 
lodgings),  has  been  quite  sufficiently  exercised  of  late.  The 


1  SHIKLEY 

present  week  is  yet  but  at  Thursday,  and  on  Monday,  Mr. 
Malone,  the  curate  of  Briarfield,  came  to  breakfast  and 
stayed  dinner ;  on  Tuesday,  Mr.  Malone  and  Mr.  Sweeting 
of  Nunnely,  came  to  tea,  remained  to  supper,  occupied  the 
spare  bed,  and  favoured  her  with  their  company  to  breakfast  on 
Wednesday  morning  ;  now,  on  Thursday,  they  are  both  here 
at  dinner,  and  she  is  almost  certain  they  will  stay  all  night. 
'  C'en  est  trop,'  she  would  say,  if  she  could  speak  French. 

Mr.  Sweeting  is  mincing  the  slice  of  roast-beef  on  his 
plate,  and  complaining  that  it  is  very  tough ;  Mr.  Donne 
says  the  beer  is  flat.  Ay !  that  is  the  worst  of  it :  if  they 
would  only  be  civil,  Mrs.  Gale  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much ; 
if  they  would  only  seem  satisfied  with  what  they  get,  she 
wouldn't  care,  but  '  these  young  parsons  is  so  high  and  so 
scornful,  they  set  everybody  beneath  their  "  fit :  "  they  treat 
her  with  less  than  civility,  just  because  she  doesn't  keep  a 
servant,  but  does  the  work  of  the  house  herself,  as  her  mother 
did  afore  her :  then  they  are  always  speaking  against  York- 
shire ways  and  Yorkshire  folk,'  and  by  that  very  token  Mrs. 
Gale  does  not  believe  one  of  them  to  be  a  real  gentleman,  or 
come  of  gentle  kin.  '  The  old  parsons  is  worth  the  whole 
lump  of  college  lads ;  they  know  what  belangs  to  good 
manners,  and  is  kind  to  high  and  low.' 

'  More  bread  ! '  cries  Mr.  Malone,  in  a  tone  which, 
though  prolonged  but  to  utter  two  syllables,  proclaims  him 
at  once  a  native  of  the  land  of  shamrocks  and  potatoes. 
Mrs.  Gale  hates  Mr.  Malone  more  than  either  of  the  other 
two  :  but  she  fears  him  also,  for  he  is  a  tall,  strongly-built 
personage,  with  real  Irish  legs  and  arms,  and  a  face  as 
genuinely  national :  not  the  Milesian  face — not  Daniel 
O'Connell's  style,  but  the  high-featured,  North-American- 
Indian  sort  of  visage,  which  belongs  to  a  certain  class  of  the 
Irish  gentry,  and  has  a  petrified  and  proud  look,  better  suited 
to  the  owner  of  an  estate  of  slaves,  than  to  the  landlord  of  a 
free  peasantry.  Mr.  Malone's  father  termed  himself  a 
gentleman :  he  was  poor  and  in  debt,  and  besottedly 
arrogant ;  and  his  son  was  like  him. 


LEVITICAL  5 

Mrs.  Gale  offered  the  loaf. 

'  Out  it,  woman,'  said  her  guest ;  and  the  '  woman  '  cut 
it  accordingly.  Had  she  fpllowed  her  inclinations,  she  would 
have  cut  the  parson  also  ;  her  Yorkshire  soul  revolted  abso- 
lutely from  his  manner  of  command. 

The  curates  had  good  appetites,  and  though  the  beef 
was  '  tough,'  they  ate  a  great  deal  of  it.  They  swallowed, 
too,  a  tolerable  allowance  of  the  '  flat  beer,'  while  a  dish  of 
Yorkshire  pudding,  and  two  tureens  of  vegetables,  disappeared 
like  leaves  before  locusts.  The  cheese,  too,  received  dis- 
tinguished marks  of  their  attention ;  and  a  '  spice-cake,' 
which  followed  by  wray  of  dessert,  vanished  like  a  vision, 
and  was  no  more  found.  Its  elegy  was  chanted  in  the 
kitchen  by  Abraham,  Mrs.  Gale's  son  and  heir,  a  youth  of 
six  summers  ;  he  had  reckoned  upon  the  reversion  thereof, 
and  when  his  mother  brought  down  the  empty  platter,  he 
lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept  sore. 

The  curates,  meantime,  sat  and  sipped  their  wine ;  a 
liquor  of  unpretending  vintage,  moderately  enjoyed.  Mr. 
Malone,  indeed,  would  much  rather  have  had  whisky  ;  but 
Mr.  Donne,  being  an  Englishman,  did  not  keep  the  beverage. 
While  they  sipped,  they  argued  ;  not  on  politics,  nor  on 
philosophy,  nor  on  literature — these  topics  were  now  as  ever 
totally  without  interest  for  them — not  even  on  theology, 
practical  or  doctrinal ;  but  on  minute  points  of  ecclesiastical 
discipline,  frivolities  which  seemed  empty  as  bubbles  to  all 
save  themselves.  Mr.  Malone,  who  contrived  to  secure  two 
glasses  of  wine,  when  his  brethren  contented  themselves 
with  one,  waxed  by  degrees  hilarious  after  his  fashion  ;  that 
is  he  grew  a  little  insolent,  said  rude  things  in  a  hectoring 
t  jne,  and  laughed  clamorously  at  his  own  brilliancy. 

Each  of  his  companions  became  in  turn  his  butt.  Malone 
had  a  stock  of  jokes  at  their  service,  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  serve  out  regularly  on  convivial  occasions  like  the 
present,  seldom  varying  his  wit ;  for  which,  indeed,  there 
was  no  necessity,  as  he  never  appeared  to  consider  himself 
monotonous,  and  did  not  at  all  care  what  others  thought. 


6  SHIRLEY 

Mr.  Donne,  he  favoured  with  hints  about  his  extreme  meagre- 
ness,  allusions  to  his  turned-up  nose,  cutting  sarcasms  on  a 
certain  threadbare  chocolate  surtout,  which  that  gentleman 
was  accustomed  to  sport  whenever  it  rained,  or  seemed 
likely  to  rain,  and  criticisms  on  a  choice  set  of  cockney 
phrases,  and  modes  of  pronunciation,  Mr.  Donne's  own 
property,  and  certainly  deserving  of  remark  for  the  elegance 
and  finish  they  communicated  to  his  style. 

Mr.  Sweeting  was  bantered  about  his  stature — he  was  a 
little  man,  a  mere  boy  in  height  and  breadth  compared  with 
the  athletic  Malone — rallied  on  his  musical  accomplish- 
ments— he  played  the  flute  and  sang  hymns  like  a  seraph 
(some  young  ladies  of  his  parish  thought),  sneered  at  as 
'  the  lady's  pet,'  teased  about  his  mamma  and  sisters ;  for 
whom  poor  Mr.  Sweeting  had  some  lingering  regard,  and  of 
whom  he  was  foolish  enough  now  and  then  to  speak  in  the 
presence  of  the  priestly  Paddy,  from  whose  anatomy  the 
bowels  of  natural  affection  had  somehow  been  omitted. 

The  victims  met  these  attacks  each  in  his  own  way  :  Mr. 
Donne  with  a  stilted  self-complacency,  and  half-sullen 
phlegm,  the  sole  props  of  his  otherwise  somewhat  rickety 
dignity ;  Mr.  Sweeting  with  the  indifference  of  a  light,  easy 
disposition,  which  never  professed  to  have  any  dignity  to 
maintain. 

When  Malone's  raillery  became  rather  too  offensive, 
which  it  soon  did,  they  joined  in  an  attempt  to  turn  the 
tables  on  him,  by  asking  him  how  many  boys  had  shouted 
'  Irish  Peter  ! '  after  him  as  he  came  along  the  road  that  day 
(Malone's  name  was  Peter — the  Rev.  Peter  Augustus 
Malone) ;  requesting  to  be  informed  whether  it  was  the 
mode  in  Ireland  for  clergymen  to  carry  loaded  pistols  in 
their  pockets,  and  a  shillelagh  in  their  hands,  when  they 
made  pastoral  visits ;  inquiring  the  signification  of  such 
words  as  vele,  firrum,  helium,  storrum  (so  Mr.  Malone  in- 
variably pronounced  veil,  firm,  helm,  storm),  and  employing 
such  other  methods  of  retaliation  as  the  innate  refinement 
of  their  minds  suggested. 


LEVITICAL  7 

This,  of  course,  would  not  do.  Malone,  being  neither 
good-natured  nor  phlegmatic,  was  presently  in  a  towering 
passion.  He  vociferated,  gesticulated  :  Donne  and  Sweeting 
laughed.  He  reviled  them  as  Saxons  and  snobs  at  the  very 
top  pitch  of  his  high  Celtic  voice  ;  they  taunted  him  with 
being  the  native  of  a  conquered  land.  He  menaced  rebellion 
in  the  name  of  his  '  counthry,'  vented  bitter  hatred  against 
English  rule ;  they  spoke  of  rags,  beggary,  and  pestilence. 
The  little  parlour  was  in  an  uproar ;  you  would  have  thought 
a  duel  must  follow  such  virulent  abuse ;  it  seemed  a  wonder 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gale  did  not  take  alarm  at  the  noise,  and 
send  for  a  constable  to  keep  the  peace.  But  they  were 
accustomed  to  such  demonstrations;  they  well  knew  that 
the  curates  never  dined  or  took  tea  together  without  a  little 
exercise  of  the  sort,  and  were  quite  easy  as  to  consequences  ; 
knowing  that  these  clerical  quarrels  were  as  harmless  as 
they  were  noisy ;  that  they  resulted  in  nothing ;  and  that, 
on  whatever  terms  the  curates  might  part  to-night,  they 
would  be  sure  to  meet  the  best  friends  in  the  world  to-morrow 
morning. 

As  the  worthy  pair  were  sitting  by  their  kitchen  fire, 
listening  to  the  repeated  and  sonorous  contact  of  Malone's 
fist  with  the  mahogany  plane  of  the  parlour-table,  and  to  the 
consequent  start  and  jingle  of  decanters  and  glasses  following 
each  assault,  to  the  mocking  laughter  of  the  allied  English 
disputants,  and  the  stuttering  declamation  of  the  isolated 
Hibernian, — -as  they  thus  sat,  a  foot  was  heard  on  the  outer 
door-step,  and  the  knocker  quivered  to  a  sharp  appeal. 

Mr.  Gale  went  and  opened. 

'  Whom  have  you  up-stairs  in  the  parlour  ? '  asked  a 
voice ;  a  rather  remarkable  voice,  nasal  in  tone,  abrupt  in 
utterance. 

'  Oh  !  Mr.  Helstone,  is  it  you,  sir  ?  I  could  hardly  see 
you  for  the  darkness ;  it  is  so  soon  dark  now.  Will  you 
walk  in,  sir  ?  ' 

'  I  want  to  know  first  whether  it  is  worth  my  while  walk- 
ing in.  Whom  have  you  up-stairs  ? ' 


8  SHIELEY 

'  The  curates,  sir ! ' 

'What!  all  of  them!' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  Been  dining  here  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  That  will  do.' 

With  these  words  a  person  entered — a  middle-aged 
man,  in  black.  He  walked  straight  across  the  kitchen  to 
an  inner  door,  opened  it,  inclined  his  head  forward,  and 
stood  listening.  There  was  something  to  listen  to,  for  the 
noise  above  was  just  then  louder  than  ever. 

'  Hey  I '  he  ejaculated  to  himself  ;  then  turning  to  Mr. 
Gale — '  Have  you  often  this  sort  of  work  ?  ' 

Mr.  Gale  had  been  a  churchwarden,  and  was  indulgent 
to  the  clergy. 

'  They're  young,  you  know,  sir — they're  young,'  said  he, 
deprecatingly. 

'  Young  !  They  want  caning.  Bad  boys — bad  boys  !  and 
if  you  were  a  Dissenter,  John  Gale,  instead  of  being  a  good 
Churchman,  they'd  do  the  like — they'd  expose  themselves : 
but  I'll ' 

By  way  of  finish  to  this  sentence,  he  passed  through 
the  inner  door,  drew  it  after  him,  and  mounted  the  stair. 
Again  he  listened  a  few  minutes  when  he  arrived  at  the 
upper  room.  Making  entrance  without  warning,  he  stood 
before  the  curates. 

And  they  were  silent ;  they  were  transfixed  ;  and  so  was 
the  invader.  He — a  personage  short  of  stature,  but  straight 
of  port,  and  bearing  on  broad  shoulders  a  hawk's  head,  beak, 
and  eye,  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  Rehoboam,  or  shovel- 
hat,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  think  it  necessary  to  lift  or 
remove  before  the  presence  in  which  he  then  stood — he  folded 
his  arms  on  his  chest  and  surveyed  his  young  friends — if 
friends  they  were — much  at  his  leisure. 

'  What !  '  he  began,  delivering  his  words  in  a  voice  no 
longer  nasal,  but  deep --more  than  deep — a  voice  made  pur- 
posely hollow  and  cavernous :  '  What !  has  the  miracle  of 


LEVITICAL  9 

Pentecost  been  renewed  ?  Have  the  cloven  tongues  come 
down  again  ?  Where  are  they  ?  The  sound  filled  the  whole 
house  just  now.  I  heard  the  seventeen  languages  in  full 
action  :  Parthians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites,  the  dwellers  in 
Mesopotamia,  and  in  Judaea,  and  Cappadocia,  in  Pontus,  and 
Asia,  Phrygia  and  Pamphylia,  in  Egypt,  and  in  the  parts  of 
Libya  about  Gyrene,  strangers  of  Borne,  Jews  and  proselytes, 
Cretes  and  Arabians ;  every  one  of  these  must  have  had  its 
representative  in  this  room  two  minutes  since.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Helstone,'  began  Mr.  Donne ; 
1  take  a  seat,  pray,  sir.  Have  a  glass  of  wine  ? ' 

His  civilities  received  no  answer  :  the  falcon  in  the  black 
coat  proceeded  : — '  What  do  I  talk  about  the  gift  of  tongues  ? 
Gift,  indeed  !  I  mistook  the  chapter,  and  book,  and  testament : 
Gospel  for  law,  Acts  for  Genesis,  the  city  of  Jerusalem  for 
the  plain  of  Shinar.  It  was  no  gift,  but  the  confusion  of 
tongues  which  has  gabbled  me  deaf  as  a  post.  You,  apostles  ? 
What !  you  three  ?  Certainly  not :  three  presumptuous 
Babylonish  masons — neither  more  nor  less  ! ' 

'  I  assure  you,  sir,  we  were  only  having  a  little  chat 
together  over  a  glass  of  wine  after  a  friendly  dinner :  settling 
the  Dissenters ! ' 

'  Oh  1  settling  the  Dissenters — were  you  ?  Was  Malone 
settling  the  Dissenters?  It  sounded  to  me  much  more  like 
settling  his  co-apostles.  You  were  quarrelling  together; 
making  almost  as  much  noise — you  three  alone — as  Moses 
Barraclough,  the  preaching  tailor,  and  all  his  hearers,  are 
making  in  the  Methodist  chapel  down  yonder,  where  they 
are  in  the  thick  of  a  revival.  I  know  whose  fault  it  is — it  is 
yours,  Malone.' 

'  Mine  !  sir  ?  ' 

1  Yours,  sir.  Donne  and  Sweeting  were  quiet  before  you 
came,  and  would  be  quiet  if  you  were  gone.  I  wish  when 
you  crossed  the  Channel  you  had  left  your  Irish  habits 
behind  you.  Dublin  student  ways  won't  do  here  :  the  pro- 
ceedings which  might  pass  unnoticed  in  a  wild  bog  and 
mountain  district  in  Connaught  will,  in  a  decent  English 


10  SHIRLEY 

pariah,  bring  disgrace  on  those  who  indulge  in  them,  and, 
what  is  far  worse,  on  the  sacred  institution  of  which  they  are 
merely  the  humble  appendages.' 

There  was  a  certain  dignity  in  the  little  elderly  gentle- 
man's manner  of  rebuking  these  youths  ;  though  it  was  not, 
perhaps,  quite  the  dignity  most  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 
Mr.  Helstone — standing  straight  as  a  ramrod — looking  keen 
as  a  kite,  presented,  despite  his  clerical  hat,  black  coat,  and 
gaiters,  more  the  air  of  a  veteran  officer  chiding  his  sub- 
alterns, than  of  a  venerable  priest  exhorting  his  sons  in  the 
faith.  Gospel  mildness — apostolic  benignity,  never  seemed 
to  have  breathed  their  influence  over  that  keen  brown  visage ; 
but  firmness  had  fixed  the  features,  and  sagacity  had  carved 
her  own  lines  about  them. 

'I  met  Supplehough,'  he  continued,  'plodding  through 
the  mud  this  wet  night,  going  to  preach  at  Milldean  opposi- 
tion shop.  As  I  told  you,  I  heard  Barraclough  bellowing  in 
the  midst  of  a  conventicle  like  a  possessed  bull ;  and  I  find 
you,  gentlemen,  tarrying  over  your  half -pint  of  muddy  port- 
wine,  and  scolding  like  angry  old  women.  No  wonder 
Supplehough  should  have  dipped  sixteen  adult  converts  in  a 
day — which  he  did  a  fortnight  since  ;  no  wonder  Barra- 
clough, scamp  and  hypocrite  as  he  is,  should  attract  all  the 
weaver-girls  in  their  flowers  and  ribbons,  to  witness  how 
much  harder  are  his  knuckles  than  the  wooden  brim  of  his 
tub ;  as  little  wonder  that  you,  when  you  are  left  to  your- 
selves, without  your  rectors — myself,  and  Hall,  and  Boultby 
—to  back  you,  should  too  often  perform  the  holy  service  of 
our  church  to  bare  walls,  and  read  your  bit  of  a  dry  discourse 
to  the  clerk,  and  the  organist,  and  the  beadle.  But  enough 
of  the  subject :  I  came  to  see  Malone — I  have  an  errand 
unto  thee,  O  captain  ! ' 

'  What  is  it  ? '  inquired  Malone,  discontentedly  ;  '  there 
can  be  no  funeral  to  take  at  this  time  of  day.' 

1  Have  you  any  arms  about  you  ?  ' 

'  Arms,  sir  ? — yes,  and  legs  :  '  and  he  advanced  the 
mighty  members, 


LEVITICAL  11 

'  Bah  !  weapons,  I  mean.' 

'  I  have  the  pistols  you  gave  me  yourself ;  I  never  part 
with  them  :  I  lay  them  ready  cocked  on  a  chair  by  my  bed- 
side at  night.  I  have  my  blackthorn.' 

'  Very  good.     Will  you  go  to  Hollow's-mill  ? ' 

'  What  is  stirring  at  Hollow's-mill  ? ' 

4  Nothing  as  yet,  nor  perhaps  will  be ;  but  Moore  is  alone 
there  :  he  has  sent  all  the  workmen  he  can  trust  to  Stilbro' ; 
there  are  only  two  women  left  about  the  place.  It  would  be 
a  nice  opportunity  for  any  of  his  well-wishers  to  pay  him  a 
visit,  if  they  knew  how  straight  the  path  was  made  before 
them.' 

'  I  am  none  of  his  well-wishers,  sir :  I  don't  care  for 
him.' 

'  Soh  !  Malone,  you  are  afraid.' 

'  You  know  me  better  than  that.  If  I  really  thought 
there  was  a  chance  of  a  row,  I  would  go :  but  Moore  is  a 
strange,  shy  man,  whom  I  never  pretend  to  understand; 
and  for  the  sake  of  his  sweet  company  only,  I  would  not  stir 
a  step.' 

'  But  there  is  a  chance  of  a  row  ;  if  a  positive  riot  does 
not  take  place — of  which,  indeed,  I  see  no  signs — yet  it  is 
unlikely  this  night  will  pass  quite  tranquilly.  You  know 
Moore  has  resolved  to  have  the  new  machinery,  and  he 
expects  two  waggon-loads  of  frames  and  shears  from  Stilbro' 
this  evening.  Scott,  the  overlooker,  and  a  few  picked  men, 
are  gone  to  fetch  them.' 

'They  will  bring  them  in  safely  and  quietly  enough, 
sir.' 

'  Moore  says  so,  and  affirms  he  wants  nobody :  some  one, 
however,  he  must  have,  if  it  were  only  to  bear  evidence  in 
case  anything  should  happen.  I  call  him  very  careless. 
He  sits  in  the  counting-house  with  the  shutters  unclosed ; 
he  goes  out  here  and  there  after  dark,  wanders  right  up  the 
hollow,  down  Fieldhead-lane,  among  the  plantations,  just  as 
if  he  were  the  darling  of  the  neighbourhood,  or — being,  as 
he  is,  its  detestation — bore  a  "charmed  life"  as  they  say  in 


12  SHIKLEY 

talebooks.  He  takes  no  warning  from  the  fate  of  Pearson, 
nor  from  that  of  Armitage — shot,  one  in  his  own  house  and 
the  other  on  the  moor.' 

'  But  he  should  take  warning,  sir,  and  use  precautions 
too,'  interposed  Mr.  Sweeting ;  '  and  I  think  he  would  if  he 
heard  what  I  heard  the  other  day.' 

'  What  did  you  hear,  Davy  ? ' 

'  You  know  Mike  Hartley,  sir  ? ' 

'  The  Antinomian  weaver.     Yes.' 

'  When  Mike  has  been  drinking  for  a  few  weeks  together, 
he  generally  winds  up  by  a  visit  to  Nunnely  vicarage,  to  tell 
Mr.  Hall  a  piece  of  his  mind  about  his  sermons,  to  denounce 
the  horrible  tendency  of  his  doctrine  of  works,  and  warn  him 
that  he  and  all  his  hearers  are  sitting  in  outer  darkness.' 

'  Well,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  Moore.' 

'  Besides  being  an  Antinomian,  he  is  a  violent  Jacobin 
and  Leveller,  sir.' 

'  I  know.  When  he  is  very  drunk,  his  mind  is  always 
running  on  regicide.  Mike  is  not  unacquainted  with  history, 
and  it  is  rich  to  hear  him  going  over  the  list  of  tyrants  of 
whom,  as  he  says,  "  the  revenger  of  blood  has  obtained  satis- 
faction." The  fellow  exults  strangely  in  murder  done  on 
crowned  heads,  or  on  any  head  for  political  reasons.  I  have 
already  heard  it  hinted  that  he  seems  to  have  a  queer 
hankering  after  Moore:  is  that  what  you  allude  to, 
Sweeting  ? ' 

1  You  use  the  proper  term,  sir.  Mr.  Hall  thinks  Mike 
has  no  personal  hatred  of  Moore ;  Mike  says  he  even  likes 
to  talk  to  him,  and  run  after  him,  but  he  has  a  hankering 
that  Moore  should  be  made  an  example  of :  he  was  extolling 
him  to  Mr.  Hall  the  other  day  as  the  mill-owner  with  the 
most  brains  in  Yorkshire,  and  for  that  reason  he  affirms 
Moore  should  be  chosen  as  a  sacrifice,  an  oblation  of  a  sweet 
savour.  Is  Mike  Hartley  in  his  right  mind,  do  you  think, 
sir  ? '  inquired  Sweeting,  simply. 

'  Can't  tell,  Davy  :  he  may  be  crazed  or  he  may  be  only 
crafty — or,  perhaps,  a  little  of  both.' 


LEVITICAL  13 

'  He  talks  of  seeing  visions,  sir.' 

'  Ay  !  He  is  a  very  Ezekiel  or  Daniel  for  visions.  He 
came  just  when  I  was  going  to  bed,  last  Friday  night,  to 
describe  one  that  had  been  revealed  to  him  in  Nunnely  Park 
that  very  afternoon.' 

'  Tell  it,  sir — what  was  it  ?  '  urged  Sweeting. 

'  Davy,  thou  hast  an  enormous  organ  of  Wonder  in  thy 
cranium ;  Malone,  you  see,  has  none ;  neither  murders  nor 
visions  interest  him  :  see  what  a  big  vacant  Saph  he  looks  at 
this  moment.' 

1  Saph  !     Who  was  Saph,  sir  ? ' 

'  I  thought  you  would  not  know  :  you  may  find  it  out ;  it 
is  biblical.  I  know  nothing  more  of  him  than  his  name  and 
race ;  but  from  a  boy  upwards,  I  have  always  attached  a 
personality  to  Saph.  Depend  on  it  he  was  honest,  heavy 
and  luckless;  he  met  his  end  at  Gob,  by  the  hand  of 
Sibbechai.' 

'  But  the  vision,  sir  ? ' 

'  Davy,  thou  shalt  hear.  Donne  is  biting  his  nails,  and 
Malone  yawning ;  so  I  will  tell  it  but  to  thee.  Mike  is  out 
of  work,  like  many  others,  unfortunately ;  Mr.  Grame,  Sir 
Philip  Nunnely's  steward,  gave  him  a  job  about  the  priory : 
according  to  his  account,  Mike  was  busy  hedging  rather  late 
in  the  afternoon,  but  before  dark,  when  he  heard  what  he 
thought  was  a  band  at  a  distance,  bugles,  fifes,  and  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet ;  it  came  from  the  forest,  and  he  wondered 
that  there  should  be  music  there.  He  looked  up  :  all  amongst 
the  trees  he  saw  moving  objects,  red,  like  poppies,  or  white, 
like  May-blossom  ;  the  wood  was  full  of  them,  they  poured 
out  and  filled  the  park.  He  then  perceived  they  were 
soldiers — thousands  and  tens  of  thousands ;  but  they  made 
no  more  noise  than  a  swarm  of  midges  on  a  summer  even- 
ing. They  formed  in  order,  he  affirmed,  and  marched,  regi- 
ment after  regiment,  across  the  park :  he  followed  them  to 
Nunnely  Common ;  the  music  still  played  soft  and  distant. 
On  the  common  he  watched  them  go  through  a  number  of 
evolutions,  a  man  clothed  in  scarlet  stood  in  the  centre  and 


14  SHIELEY 

directed  them  ;  they  extended,  he  declared,  over  fifty  acres ; 
they  were  in  sight  half  an  hour ;  then  they  marched  away 
quite  silently :  the  whole  time  he  heard  neither  voice  nor 
tread — nothing  but  the  faint  music  playing  a  solemn 
march.' 

'  Where  did  they  go,  sir  ? ' 

'  Towards  Briarfield.  Mike  followed  them  ;  they  seemed 
passing  Fieldhead,  when  a  column  of  smoke,  such  as  might 
be  vomited  by  a  park  of  artillery,  spread  noiseless  over  the 
fields,  the  road,  the  common,  and  rolled,  he  said,  blue  and 
dim,  to  his  very  feet.  As  it  cleared  away  he  looked  again 
for  the  soldiers,  but  they  were  vanished ;  he  saw  them  no 
more.  Mike,  like  a  wise  Daniel  as  he  is,  not  only  rehearsed 
the  vision,  but  gave  the  interpretation  thereof :  it  signifies,  he 
intimated,  bloodshed  and  civil  conflict.' 

'  Do  you  credit  it,  sir  ?  '  asked  Sweeting. 

'  Do  you,  Davy  ?  But  come,  Malone,  why  are  you  not 
off? 

'  I  am  rather  surprised,  sir,  you  did  not  stay  with  Moore 
yourself :  you  like  this  kind  of  thing.' 

'  So  I  should  have  done,  had  I  not  unfortunately  happened 
to  engage  Boultby  to  sup  with  me  on  his  way  home  from  the 
Bible  Society  meeting  at  Nunnely.  I  promised  to  send  you 
as  my  substitute  ;  for  which,  by-the-by,  he  did  not  thank 
me :  he  would  much  rather  have  had  me  than  you,  Peter. 
Should  there  be  any  real  need  of  help,  I  shall  join  you  :  the 
mill-bell  will  give  warning.  Meantime,  go ;  unless  (turning 
suddenly  to  Messrs.  Sweeting  and  Donne) — unless  Davy 
Sweeting  or  Joseph  Donne  prefers  going.  What  do  you  say, 
gentlemen?  The  commission  is  an  honourable  one,  not 
without  the  seasoning  of  a  little  real  peril ;  for  the  country 
is  in  a  queer  state,  as  you  all  know,  and  Moore  and  his  mill, 
and  his  machinery,  are  held  in  sufficient  odium.  There  are 
chivalric  sentiments,  there  is  high-beating  courage  under 
those  waistcoats  of  yours,  I  doubt  not.  Perhaps  I  am  too 
partial  to  my  favourite,  Peter;  little  David  shall  be  the 
champion,  or  spotless  Joseph.  Malone,  you  are  but  a  great 


LEVITICAL  15 

floundering  Saul  after  all,  good  only  to  lend  your  armour : 
out  with  your  fire-arms  fetch  your  shillelagh ;  it  is  there — in 
the  corner.' 

With  a  significant  grin,  Malone  produced  his  pistols, 
offering  one  to  each  of  his  brethren.  They  were  not  readily 
seized  on  :  with  graceful  modesty,  each  gentleman  retired  a 
step  from  the  presented  weapon. 

'  I  never  touch  them  :  I  never  did  touch  anything  of  the 
kind,'  said  Mr.  Donne. 

'  I  am  almost  a  stranger  to  Mr.  Moore,'  murmured 
Sweeting. 

'  If  you  never  touched  a  pistol,  try  the  feel  of  it  now,  great 
satrap  of  Egypt.  As  to  the  little  minstrel,  he  probably  prefers 
encountering  the  Philistines  with  no  other  weapon  than  his 
flute.  Get  their  hats,  Peter  ;  they'll  both  of  'em  go.' 

'  No,  sir  ;  no,  Mr.  Helstone ;  my  mother  wouldn't  like  it,' 
pleaded  Sweeting. 

'  And  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  get  mixed  up  in  affairs  of 
the  kind,'  observed  Donne. 

Helstone  smiled  sardonically ;  Malone  laughed  a  horse- 
laugh. He  then  replaced  his  arms,  took  his  hat  and  cudgel, 
and  saying  that  '  he  never  felt  more  in  tune  for  a  shindy  in 
his  life,  and  that  he  wished  a  score  of  greasy  cloth-dressers 
might  beat  up  Moore's  quarters  that  night,'  he  made  his  exit ; 
clearing  the  stairs  at  a  stride  or  two,  and  making  the  house 
shake  with  the  bang  of  the  front-door  behind  him. 


CHAPTEB  II 

THE  WAGGONS 

THE  evening  was  pitch-dark :  star  and  moon  were  quenched 
in  grey  rain-clouds — gray  they  would  have  been  by  day,  by 
night  they  looked  sable.  Malone  was  not  a  man  given  to 
close  observation  of  Nature ;  her  changes  passed,  for  the 
most  part,  unnoticed  by  him  :  he  could  walk  miles  on  the 
most  varying  April  day,  and  never  see  the  beautiful  dallying 
of  earth  and  heaven ;  never  mark  when  a  sunbeam  kissed 
the  hill-tops,  making  them  smile  clear  in  green  light,  or 
when  a  shower  wept  over  them,  hiding  their  crests  with  the 
low-hanging,  dishevelled  tresses  of  a  cloud.  He  did  noti 
therefore,  care  to  contrast  the  sky  as  it  now  appeared — a 
muffled,  streaming  vault,  all  black,  save  where,  towards  the 
east,  the  furnaces  of  Stilbro'  ironworks  threw  a  tremulous 
lurid  shimmer  on  the  horizon — with  the  same  sky  on  an 
unclouded  frosty  night.  He  did  not  trouble  himself  to  ask 
where  the  constellations  and  the  planets  were  gone,  or  to 
regret  the  '  black-blue '  serenity  of  the  air-ocean  which  those 
white  islets  stud  ;  and  which  another  ocean,  of  heavier  and 
denser  element,  now  rolled  below  and  concealed.  He  just 
doggedly  pursued  his  way,  leaning  a  little  forward  as  he  walked, 
and  wearing  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  as  his  Irish 
manner  was.  '  Tramp,  tramp,'  he  went  along  the  causeway, 
where  the  road  boasted  the  privilege  of  such  an  accommo- 
dation ;  '  splash,  splash,'  through  the  mire-filled  cart-ruts, 
where  the  flags  were  exchanged  for  soft  mud.  He  looked 
but  for  certain  land-marks :  the  spire  of  Briarfield  church  ; 
further  on,  the  lights  of '  Eedhouse.1  This  was  an  inn ;  and 


THE  WAGGONS  17 

when  he  reached  it,  the  glow  of  a  fire  through  a  half -curtained 
window,  a  vision  of  glasses  on  a  round  table,  and  of  revellers 
on  an  oaken  settle,  had  nearly  drawn  aside  the  curate  from 
his  course.  He  thought  longingly  of  a  tumbler  of  whisky- 
and-water :  in  a  strange  place,  he  would  instantly  have 
realized  the  dream  ;  but  the  company  assembled  in  that 
kitchen  were  Mr.  Helstone's  own  parishioners ;  they  all 
knew  him.  He  sighed,  and  passed  on. 

The  high-road  was  now  to  be  quitted,  as  the  remaining 
distance  to  Hollow's-mill  might  be  considerably  reduced  by  a 
short  cut  across  fields.  These  fields  were  level  and  monoto- 
nous ;  Malone  took  a  direct  course  through  them,  jumping 
hedge  and  wall.  He  passed  but  one  building  here,  and  that 
seemed  large  and  hall-like,  though  irregular :  you  could  see 
a  high  gable,  then  a  long  front,  then  a  low  gable,  then  a  thick, 
lofty  stack  of  chimneys :  there  were  some  trees  behind  it. 
It  was  dark ;  not  a  candle  shone  from  any  window ;  it  was 
absolutely  still :  the  rain  running  from  the  eaves,  and  the 
rather  wild,  but  very  low  whistle  of  the  wind  round  the 
chimneys  and  through  the  boughs,  were  the  sole  sounds  in 
its  neighbourhood. 

This  building  passed,  the  fields,  hitherto  flat,  declined  in 
a  rapid  descent, :  evidently  a  vale  lay  below,  through  which 
you  could  hear  the  water  run.  One  light  glimmered  in  the 
depth  :  for  that  beacon  Malone  steered. 

He  came  to  a  little  white  house — you  could  see  it  was 
white  even  through  this  dense  darkness — and  knocked  at  the 
door.  A  fresh-faced  servant  opened  it ;  by  the  candle  she 
held  was  revealed  a  narrow  passage,  terminating  in  a  narrow 
stair.  Two  doors  covered  with  crimson  baize,  a  strip  of 
crimson  carpet  down  the  steps,  contrasted  with  light-coloured 
walls  and  white  floor,  made  the  little  interior  look  clear  and 
fresh. 

'  Mr.  Moore  is  at  home,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir,  but  he  is  not  in.' 

'  Not  in  !     Where  is  he  then  ?  ' 


18  SHIRLEY 

'  At  the  mill — in  the  counting-house.' 

Here  one  of  the  crimson  doors  opened. 

'  Are  the  waggons  come,  Sarah  ? '  asked  a  female  voice, 
and  a  female  head  at  the  same  time  was  apparent.  It  might 
not  be  the  head  of  a  goddess — indeed  a  screw  of  curl-paper 
on  each  side  the  temples  quite  forbade  that  supposition — but 
neither  was  it  the  head  of  a  Gorgon ;  yet  Malone  seemed  to 
take  it  in  the  latter  light.  Big  as  he  was,  he  shrank  bashfully 
back  into  the  rain  at  the  view  thereof ;  and  saying,  '  I'll  go 
to  him,'  hurried  in  seeming  trepidation  down  a  short  lane, 
across  an  obscure  yard,  towards  a  huge  black  mill. 

The  work -hours  were  over  ;  the  '  hands '  were  gone  ;  the 
machinery  was  at  rest ;  the  mill  shut  up.  Malone  walked 
round  it ;  somewhere  in  its  great  sooty  flank  he  found  another 
chink  of  light ;  he  knocked  at  another  door,  using  for  the 
purpose  the  thick  end  of  his  shillelagh,  with  which  he  beat 
a  rousing  tattoo.  A  key  turned  ;  the  door  unclosed. 

'  Is  it  Joe  Scott  ?    What  news  of  the  waggons,  Joe  ? ' 

'  No — it's  myself.     Mr.  Helstone  would  send  me.' 

'  Oh !  Mr.  Malone.'  The  voice  in  uttering  this  name  had 
the  slightest  possible  cadence  of  disappointment.  After  a 
moment's  pause,  it  continued,  politely,  but  a  little  formally : 
— '  I  beg  you  will  come  in,  Mr.  Malone.  I  regret  extremely 
Mr.  Helstone  should  have  thought  it  necessary  to  trouble  you 
so  far ;  there  was  no  necessity  : — I  told  him  so ; — and  on 
such  a  night — but  walk  forwards.' 

Through  a  dark  apartment,  of  aspect  undistinguishable, 
Malone  followed  the  speaker  into  a  light  and  bright  room 
within  :  very  light  and  bright  indeed  it  seemed  to  eyes  which, 
for  the  last  hour,  had  been  striving  to  penetrate  the  double 
darkness  of  night  and  fog  ;  but  except  for  its  excellent  fire, 
and  for  a  lamp  of  elegant  design  and  vivid  lustre  burning  on 
a  table,  it  was  a  very  plain  place.  The  boarded  floor  was 
carpetless ;  the  three  or  four  stiff-backed  green-painted 
chairs  seemed  once  to  have  furnished  the  kitchen  of  some 
farm-house ;  a  desk  of  strong,  solid  formation,  the  table 
aforesaid,  and  some  framed  sheets  on  the  stone-coloured 


THE  WAGGONS  19 

walls,  bearing  plans  for  building,  for  gardening,  designs  of 
machinery,  &c.,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  place. 

Plain  as  it  was,  it  seemed  to  satisfy  Malone ;  who,  when 
he  had  removed  and  hung  up  his  wet  surtout  and  hat,  drew 
one  of  the  rheumatic-looking  chairs  to  the  hearth,  and  set 
his  knees  almost  within  the  bars  of  the  red  grate. 

'  Comfortable  quarters  you  have  here,  Mr.  Moore ;  and  all 
snug  to  yourself.' 

'Yes;  but  my  sister  would  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  you 
would  prefer  stepping  into  the  house.' 

'  Oh,  no !  the  ladies  are  best  alone.  I  never  was  a  lady's 
man.  You  don't  mistake  me  for  my  friend  Sweeting,  do  you, 
Mr.  Moore  ? ' 

1  Sweeting  ! — which  of  them  is  that  ?  The  gentleman  hi 
the  chocolate  overcoat,  or  the  little  gentleman  ? ' 

'  The  little  one ; — he  of  Nunnely  ;  the  cavalier  of  the 
Misses  Sykes,  with  the  whole  six  of  whom  he  is  in  love — ha, 
ha!' 

'  Better  be  generally  in  love  with  all  than  specially  with 
one,  I  should  think  in  that  quarter.' 

'  But  he  is  specially  in  love  with  one  besides,  for  when  I 
and  Donne  urged  him  to  make  a  choice  amongst  the  fair  bevy, 
he  named — which  do  you  think  ? ' 

With  a  queer,  quiet  smile,  Mr.  Moore  replied,  '  Dora,  of 
course,  or  Harriet.' 

'  Ha !  ha !  you've  made  an  excellent  guess ;  but  what 
made  you  hit  on  those  two  ? ' 

'  Because  they  are  the  tallest,  the  handsomest ;  and  Dora, 
at  least,  is  the  stoutest ;  and  as  your  friend  Mr.  Sweeting  is 
but  a  little,  slight  figure,  I  concluded  that,  according  to  a 
frequent  rule  in  such  cases,  he  preferred  his  contrast.' 

'  You  are  right ;  Dora  it  is  :  but  he  has  no  chance,  has 
he,  Moore  ? ' 

'  What  has  Mr.  Sweeting,  besides  his  curacy  ? ' 

This  question  seemed  to  tickle  Malone  amazingly;  he 
laughed  for  full  three  minutes  before  he  answered  it. 

'  What   has   Sweeting  ?     Why,  David   has  his  harp,  or 


20  SHIKLEY 

flute,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  He  has  a  sort  of 
pinchbeck  watch  ;  ditto,  ring  ;  ditto,  eye-glass  :  that's  what 
he  has.' 

'  How  would  he  propose  to  keep  Miss  Sykes  in  gowns 
only?' 

'  Ha  !  ha !  Excellent !  I'll  ask  him  that  next  time  I  see 
him.  I'll  roast  him  for  his  presumption :  but  no  doubt  he 
expects  old  Christopher  Sykes  would  do  something  handsome. 
He  is  rich,  is  he  not  ?  They  live  in  a  large  house.' 

1  Sykes  carries  on  an  extensive  concern.' 

'  Therefore  he  must  be  wealthy,  eh  ? ' 

1  Therefore  he  must  have  plenty  to  do  with  his  wealth  ; 
and  in  these  times  would  be  about  as  likely  to  think  of 
drawing  money  from  the  business  to  give  dowries  to  his 
daughters  as  I  should  be  to  dream  of  pulling  down  the 
cottage  there,  and  constructing  on  its  ruins  a  house  as  large 
as  Fieldhead.' 

'  Do  you  know  what  I  heard,  Moore,  the  other  day  ?  ' 

'  No :  perhaps  that  I  was  about  to  effect  some  such 
change.  Your  Briarfield  gossips  are  capable  of  saying  that 
or  sillier  things.' 

I  That  you  were  going  to  take  Fieldhead  on  a  lease — I 
thought  it  looked  a  dismal  place,  by-the-by,  to-night,  as  I 
passed  it — and  that  it  was  your  intention  to  settle  a  Miss 
Sykes  there  as  mistress :  to  be  married,  in  short,  ha !  ha ! 
Now,  which  is  it  ?    Dora — I  am  sure  :  you  said  she  was  the 
handsomest.' 

I 1  wonder  how  often  it  has  been  settled  that  I  was  to  be 
married  since  I  came  to  Briarfield  !     They  have  assigned  me 
every  marriageable  single  woman  by  turns  in  the  district.  Now 
it  was  the  two  Misses  Wynns — first  the  dark,  then  the  light 
one.     Now  the  red-haired  Miss  Armitage,  then  the  mature 
Ann  Pearson ;  at  present  you  throw  on  my  shoulders  all  the 
tribe  of  the  Misses  Sykes.   On  what  grounds  this  gossip  rests, 
God  knows.     I  visit  nowhere — I  seek  female  society  about 
as  assiduously  as  you  do,  Mr.   Me  lone.     If   ever   I   go   to 
"Whinbury,  it  is  only  to  give  Sykes  or  Pearson  a  call  in  their 


THE  WAGGONS  21 

counting-house ;  where  our  discussions  run  on  other  topics 
than  matrimony,  and  our  thoughts  are  occupied  with  other 
things  than  courtships,  establishments,  dowries  :  the  cloth  we 
can't  sell,  the  hands  we  can't  employ,  the  mills  we  can't  run, 
the  perverse  course  of  events  generally,  which  we  cannot 
alter,  fill  our  hearts,  I  take  it,  pretty  well  at  present,  to  the 
tolerably  complete  exclusion  of  such  figments  as  love- 
making,  &c.' 

'  I  go  along  with  you  completely,  Moore.  If  there  is  one 
notion  I  hate  more  than  another,  it  is  that  of  marriage  :  I 
mean  marriage  in  the  vulgar  weak  sense,  as  a  mere  matter 
of  sentiment ;  two  beggarly  fools  agreeing  to  unite  their 
indigence  by  some  fantastic  tie  of  feeling — humbug  1  But 
an  advantageous  connection,  such  as  can  be  formed  in  con- 
sonance with  dignity  of  views,  and  permanency  of  solid 
interests,  is  not  so  bad — eh  ? ' 

'  No,'  responded  Moore,  in  an  absent  manner ;  the  subject 
seemed  to  have  no  interest  for  him :  he  did  not  pursue  it. 
After  sitting  for  some  time  gazing  at  the  fire  with  a  pre- 
occupied air,  he  suddenly  turned  hig  head. 

'  Hark  ! '  said  he  :  '  did  you  hear  wheels  ? ' 

Eising,  he  went  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and  listened. 
He  soon  closed  it.  '  It  is  only  the  sound  of  the  wind  rising,' 
he  remarked,  '  and  the  rivulet  a  little  swollen,  rushing  down 
the  hollow.  I  expected  those  waggons  at  six ;  it  is  near  nine 
now.' 

'  Seriously,  do  you  suppose  that  the  putting  up  of  this 
new  machinery  will  bring  you  into  danger  ? '  inquired  Malone. 
1  Helstone  seems  to  think  it  will.' 

'  I  only  wish  the  machines — the  frames  were  safe  here, 
and  lodged  within  the  walls  of  this  mill.  Once  put  up,  I  defy 
the  frame-breakers  :  let  them  only  pay  me  a  visit,  and  take 
the  consequences  ;  my  mill  is  my  castle.' 

'  One  despises  such  low  scoundrels,'  observed  Malone,  in 
a  profound  vein  of  reflection.  '  I  almost  wish  a  party  would 
call  upon  you  to-night ;  but  the  road  seemed  extremely  quiet 
as  I  came  along  :  I  saw  nothing  astir.' 


22  SHIBLEY 

'  You  came  by  the  Bedhouse  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  There  would  be  nothing  on  that  road :  it  is  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Stilbro'  the  risk  lies.' 

'  And  you  think  there  is  risk  ? ' 

'  What  these  fellows  have  done  to  others,  they  may  do  to 
me.  There  is  only  this  difference :  most  of  the  manu- 
facturers seem  paralyzed  when  they  are  attacked.  Sykes, 
for  instance,  when  his  dressing-shop  was  set  on  fire  and 
burned  to  the  ground,  when  the  cloth  was  torn  from  his 
tenters  and  left  in  shreds  in  the  field,  took  no  steps  to  dis- 
cover or  punish  the  miscreants  :  he  gave  up  as  tamely  as  a 
rabbit  under  the  jaws  of  a  ferret.  Now  I,  if  I  know  myself, 
should  stand  by  my  trade,  my  mill,  and  my  machinery.' 

'  Helstone  says  these  three  are  your  gods ;  that  the 
"  Orders  in  Council "  are  with  you  another  name  for  the 
seven  deadly  sins  ;  that  Castlereagh  is  your  Antichrist,  and 
the  war-party  his  legions.' 

'  Yes ;  I  abhor  all  these  things  because  they  ruin  me : 
they  stand  in  my  way :  I  cannot  get  on.  I  cannot  execute 
my  plans  because  of  them  :  I  see  myself  baffled  at  every  turn 
by  their  untoward  effects.' 

'  But  you  are  rich  and  thriving,  Moore  ?  ' 

'  I  am  very  rich  in  cloth  I  cannot  sell :  you  should  step 
into  my  warehouse  yonder,  and  observe  how  it  is  piled  to  the 
roof  with  pieces.  Boakes  and  Pearson  are  in  the  same  con- 
dition :  America  used  to  be  their  market,  but  the  "  Orders  in 
Council "  have  cut  that  off.' 

Malone  did  not  seem  prepared  to  carry  on  briskly  a  con- 
versation of  this  sort ;  he  began  to  knock  the  heels  of  his 
boots  together,  and  to  yawn. 

'  And  then  to  think,'  continued  Mr.  Moore,  who  seemed 
too  much  taken  up  with  the  current  of  his  own  thoughts  to 
note  the  symptoms  of  his  guest's  ennui, — '  to  think  that 
these  ridiculous  gossips  of  Whinbury  and  Briarfield  will 
keep  pestering  one  about  being  married  !  As  if  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  in  life  but  to  "  pay  attention,"  as  they 


THE  WAGGONS  23 

say,  to  some  young  lady,  and  then  to  go  to  church  with  her, 
and  then  to  start  on  a  bridal  tour,  and  then  to  run  through  a 
round  of  visits,  and  then,  I  suppose,  to  be  "  having  a  family." 
— Oh,  que  le  diable  emporte !  '—He  broke  off  the  aspiration 
into  which  he  was  launching  with  a  certain  energy,  and 
added,  more  calmly — '  I  believe  women  talk  and  think  only 
of  these  things,  and  they  naturally  fancy  men's  minds 
similarly  occupied.' 

'  Of  course— of  course,'  assented  Malone ;  '  but  never 
mind  them.'  And  he  whistled,  looked  impatiently  round, 
and  seemed  to  feel  a  great  want  of  something.  This  time 
Moore  caught,  and,  it  appeared,  comprehended  his  demonstra- 
tions. 

'  Mr.  Malone,'  said  he,  '  you  must  require  refreshment 
after  your  wet  walk  :  I  forget  hospitality.' 

1  Not  at  all,'  rejoined  Malone ;  but  he  looked  as  if  the 
right  nail  was  at  last  hit  on  the  head,  nevertheless.  Moore 
rose  and  opened  a  cupboard. 

'  It  is  my  fancy,'  said  he,  '  to  have  every  convenience 
within  myself,  and  not  to  be  dependent  on  the  feminity  in 
the  cottage  yonder  for  every  mouthful  I  eat  or  every  drop  I 
drink.  I  often  spend  the  evening  and  sup  here  alone,  and 
sleep  with  Joe  Scott  in  the  mill.  Sometimes  I  am  my  own 
watchman ;  I  require  little  sleep,  and  it  pleases  me  on  a  fine 
night  to  wander  for  an  hour  or  two  with  my  musket  about 
the  hollow.  Mr.  Malone,  can  you  cook  a  mutton-chop  ?  ' 

'  Try  me  :  I've  done  it  hundreds  of  times  at  college.' 

'  There's  a  dishful,  then,  and  there's  the  gridiron.  Turn 
them  quickly ;  you  know  the  secret  of  keeping  the  juices 
in?' 

'  Never  fear  me— you  shall  see.  Hand  a  knife  and  fork, 
please.' 

The  curate  turned  up  his  coat-cuffs,  and  applied  himself 
to  the  cookery  with  vigour.  The  manufacturer  placed  on 
the  table  plates,  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  black  bottle,  and  two 
tumblers.  He  then  produced  a  small  copper  kettle — still 
from  the  same  well-stored  recess,  his  cupboard — filled  it  with 


24  SHIELEY 

water  from  a  large  stone  jar  in  a  corner,  set  it  on  the  fire 
beside  the  hissing  gridiron,  got  lemons,  sugar,  and  a  small 
china  punch-bowl ;  but  while  he  was  brewing  the  punch,  a 
tap  at  the  door  called  him  away. 

'  Is  it  you,  Sarah  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir.     Will  you  come  to  supper,  please,  sir  ? ' 

'  No ;  I  shall  not  be  in  to-night  :  I  shall  sleep  in  the  mill. 
So  lock  the  doors,  and  tell  your  mistress  to  go  to  bed.'  He 
returned. 

'  You  have  your  household  in  proper  order,'  observed 
Malone  approvingly,  as,  with  his  fine  face  ruddy  as  the 
embers  over  which  he  bent,  he  assiduously  turned  the 
mutton-chops.  'You  are  not  under  petticoat  government, 
like  poor  Sweeting ;  a  man — whew ! — how  the  fat  spits  ! — it 
has  burnt  my  hand — destined  to  be  ruled  by  women.  Now 
you  and  I,  Moore — there's  a  fine  brown  one  for  you,  and  full 
of  gravy — you  and  I  will  have  no  gray  mares  in  our  stables 
when  we  marry.' 

'  I  don't  know — I  never  think  about  it :  if  the  gray  mare 
is  handsome  and  tractable,  why  not  ? ' 

'  The  chops  are  done  :  is  the  punch  brewed  ? ' 

'  There  is  a  glassful :  taste  it.  When  Joe  Scott  and  hia 
minions  return  they  shall  have  a  share  of  this,  provided  they 
bring  home  the  frames  intact.' 

Malone  waxed  very  exultant  over  the  supper :  he  laughed 
aloud  at  trifles ;  made  bad  jokes  and  applauded  them  him- 
self ;  and,  in  short,  grew  unmeaningly  noisy.  His  host,  on 
the  contrary,  remained  quiet  as  before.  It  is  time,  reader, 
that  you  should  have  some  idea  of  the  appearance  of  this 
same  host :  I  must  endeavour  to  sketch  him  as  he  sits  at 
table. 

He  is  what  you  would  probably  call,  at  first  view,  rather 
a  strange-looking  man ;  for  he  is  thin,  dark,  sallow ;  very 
foreign  of  aspect,  with  shadowy  hair  carelessly  streaking  his 
forehead  :  it  appears  that  he  spends  but  little  time  at  his 
toilette,  or  he  would  arrange  it  with  more  taste.  He  seems 
unconscious  that  his  features  are  fine,  that  they  have  a  southern 


THE  WAGGONS  25 

symmetry,  clearness,  regularity  in  their  chiselling  ;  nor  does 
a  spectator  become  aware  of  this  advantage  till  he  has  ex- 
amined him  well,  for  an  anxious  countenance,  and  a  hollow, 
somewhat  haggard,  outline  of  face  disturb  the  idea  of  beauty 
with  one  of  care.  His  eyes  are  large,  and  grave,  and  gray  ; 
their  expression  is  intent  and  meditative,  rather  searching 
than  soft,  rather  thoughtful  than  genial.  When  he  parts  his 
lips  in  a  smile,  his  physiognomy  is  agreeable — not  that  it  is 
frank  or  cheerful  even  then,  but  you  feel  the  influence  of  a 
certain  sedate  charm,  suggestive,  whether  truly  or  delusively, 
of  a  considerate,  perhaps  a  kind  nature ;  of  feelings  that  may 
wear  well  at  home ;  patient,  forbearing,  possibly  faithful 
feelings.  He  is  still  young — not  more  than  thirty;  his 
stature  is  tall,  his  figure  slender.  His  manner  of  speaking 
displeases :  he  has  an  outlandish  accent,  which,  notwith- 
standing a  studied  carelessness  of  pronunciation  and  diction, 
grates  on  a  British,  and  especially  on  a  Yorkshire  ear. 

Mr.  Moore,  indeed,  was  but  half  a  Briton,  and  scarcely 
that.  He  came  of  a  foreign  ancestry  by  the  mother's  side, 
and  was  himself  born  and  partly  reared  on  a  foreign  soil. 

A  hybrid  in  nature,  it  is  probable  he  had  a  hybrid's  feeling 
on  many  points — patriotism  for  one  ;  it  is  likely  that  he  was 
unapt  to  attach  himself  to  parties,  to  sects,  even  to  climes 
and  customs  ;  it  is  not  impossible  that  he  had  a  tendency  to 
isolate  his  individual  person  from  any  community  amidst 
which  his  lot  might  temporarily  happen  to  be  thrown,  and 
that  he  felt  it  to  be  his  best  wisdom  to  push  the  interests  of 
Eobert  Ge"rard  Moore,  to  the  exclusion  of  philanthropic  con- 
sideration for  general  interests  :  with  which  he  regarded  the 
said  G6rard  Moore  as  in  a  great  measure  disconnected. 
Trade  was  Mr.  Moore's  hereditary  calling :  the  G6rards  of 
Antwerp  had  been  merchants  for  two  centuries  back.  Once 
they  had  been  wealthy  merchants  ;  but  the  uncertainties,  the 
involvements  of  business  had  come  upon  them  ;  disastrous 
speculations  had  loosened  by  degrees  the  foundations  of 
their  credit ;  the  house  had  stood  on  a  tottering  base  for  a 
dozen  years ;  and  at  last,  in  the  shock  of  the  French  Eevolu- 


26  SHIELEY 

tion,  it  had  rushed  down  a  total  ruin.  In  its  fall  was 
involved  the  English  and  Yorkshire  firm  of  Moore,  closely 
connected  with  the  Antwerp  house  ;  and  of  which  one  of  the 
partners,  resident  in  Antwerp,  Eobert  Moore,  had  married 
Hortense  G6rard,  with  the  prospect  of  his  bride  inheriting 
her  father  Constantine  Gerard's  share  in  the  business.  She 
inherited,  as  we  have  seen,  but  his  share  in  the  liabilities  of 
the  firm ;  and  these  liabilities,  though  duly  set  aside  by  a 
composition  with  creditors,  some  said  her  son  Eobert 
accepted,  in  his  turn,  as  a  legacy  ;  and  that  he  aspired  one 
day  to  discharge  them,  and  to  rebuild  the  fallen  house  of 
G6rard  and  Moore  on  a  scale  at  least  equal  to  its  former 
greatness.  It  was  even  supposed  that  he  took  by-past  cir- 
cumstances much  to  heart ;  and  if  a  childhood  passed  at  the 
side  of  a  saturnine  mother,  under  foreboding  of  coming  evil, 
and  a  manhood  drenched  and  blighted  by  the  pitiless  descent 
of  the  storm,  could  painfully  impress  the  mind,  his  probably 
was  impressed  in  no  golden  characters. 

If,  however,  he  had  a  great  end  of  restoration  in  view, 
it  was  not  in  his  power  to  employ  great  means  for  its  attain- 
ment ;  he  was  obliged  to  be  content  with  the  day  of  small 
things.  When  he  came  to  Yorkshire,  he — whose  ancestors 
had  owned  warehouses  in  this  seaport,  and  factories  in  that 
inland  town,  had  possessed  their  town-house  and  their 
country-seat — saw  no  way  open  to  him  but  to  rent  a  cloth- 
mill,  in  an  out-of-the-way  nook  of  an  out-of-the-way  district ; 
to  take  a  cottage  adjoining  it  for  his  residence,  and  to  add 
to  his  possessions,  as  pasture  for  his  horse,  and  space  for  his 
cloth-tenters,  a  few  acres  of  the  steep  rugged  land  that  lined 
the  hollow  through  which  his  mill-stream  brawled.  All  this 
he  held  at  a  somewhat  high  rent  (for  these  war  times  were 
hard,  and  everything  was  dear),  of  the  trustees  of  the  Field- 
head  estate,  then  the  property  of  a  minor. 

At  the  time  this  history  commences,  Eobert  Moore  had 
lived  but  two  years  in  the  district ;  during  which  period  he 
had  at  least  proved  himself  possessed  of  the  quality  of 
activity.  The  dingy  cottage  was  converted  into  a  neat 


THE   WAGGONS  27 

tasteful  residence.  Of  part  of  the  rough  land  he  had  made 
garden-ground,  which  he  cultivated  with  singular,  even  with 
Flemish,  exactness  and  care.  As  to  the  mill,  which  was  an 
old  structure,  and  fitted  up  with  old  machinery,  now  become 
inefficient  and  out  of  date,  he  had  from  the  first  evinced  the 
strongest  contempt  for  all  its  arrangements  and  appoint- 
ments :  his  aim  had  been  to  effect  a  radical  reform,  which 
he  had  executed  as  fast  as  his  very  limited  capital  would 
allow  ;  and  the  narrowness  of  that  capital,  and  consequent 
check  on  his  progress,  was  a  restraint  which  galled  his 
spirit  sorely.  Moore  ever  wanted  to  push  on  :  '  Forward  ' 
was  the  device  stamped  upon  his  soul ;  but  poverty  curbed 
him  :  sometimes  (figuratively)  he  foamed  at  the  mouth  when 
the  reins  were  drawn  very  tight. 

In  this  state  of  feeling,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  he 
would  deliberate  much  as  to  whether  his  advance  was  or 
was  not  prejudicial  to  others.  Not  being  a  native,  nor  for 
any  length  of  time  a  resident  of  the  neighbourhood,  he 
did  not  sufficiently  care  when  the  new  inventions  threw  the 
old  work-people  out  of  employ :  he  never  asked  himself 
where  those  to  whom  he  no  longer  paid  weekly  wages  found 
daily  bread ;  and  in  this  negligence  he  only  resembled 
thousands  besides,  on  whom  the  starving  poor  of  Yorkshire 
seemed  to  have  a  closer  claim. 

The  period  of  which  I  write  was  an  overshadowed  one  in 
British  history,  and  especially  in  the  history  of  the  northern 
provinces.  War  was  then  at  its  height.  Europe  was  all  in- 
volved therein.  England,  if  not  weary,  was  worn  with  long 
resistance  :  yes,  and  half  her  people  were  weary  too,  and  cried 
out  for  peace  on  any  terms.  National  honour  was  become 
a  mere  empty  name,  of  no  value  in  the  eyes  of  many,  because 
their  sight  was  dim  with  famine  ;  and  for  a  morsel  of  meat 
they  would  have  sold  their  birthright. 

The  '  Orders  in  Council,'  provoked  by  Napoleon's  Milan 
and  Berlin  decrees,  and  forbidding  neutral  powers  to  trade 
with  France,  had,  by  offending  America,  cut  off  the  princi- 
pal market  of  the  Yorkshire  woollen  trade,  and  brought  it 


28  SHIKLEY 

consequently  to  the  verge  of  ruin.  Minor  foreign  markets  were 
glutted,  and  would  receive  no  more  :  the  Brazils,  Portugal, 
Sicily,  were  all  overstocked  by  nearly  two  years'  consump- 
tion. At  this  crisis,  certain  inventions  in  machinery  were 
introduced  into  the  staple  manufactures  of  the  north,  which, 
greatly  reducing  the  number  of  hands  necessary  to  be 
employed,  threw  thousands  out  of  work,  and  left  them 
without  legitimate  means  of  sustaining  life.  A  bad  harvest 
supervened.  Distress  reached  its  climax.  Endurance, 
overgoaded,  stretched  the  hand  of  fraternity  to  sedition. 
The  throes  of  a  sort  of  moral  earthquake  were  felt  heaving 
under  the  hills  of  the  northern  counties.  But,  as  is  usual 
in  such  cases,  nobody  took  much  notice.  When  a  food-riot 
broke  out  in  a  manufacturing  town,  when  a  gig-mill  was 
burnt  to  the  ground,  or  a  manufacturer's  house  was  attacked, 
the  furniture  thrown  into  the  streets,  and  the  family  forced 
to  flee  for  their  lives,  some  local  measures  were  or  were  not 
taken  by  the  local  magistracy  ;  a  ringleader  was  detected,  or 
more  frequently  suffered  to  elude  detection ;  newspaper 
paragraphs  were  written  on  the  subject,  and  there  the  thing 
stopped.  As  to  the  sufferers,  whose  sole  inheritance  was 
labour,  and  who  had  lost  that  inheritance — who  could  not 
get  work,  and  consequently  could  not  get  wages,  and  conse- 
quently could  not  get  bread — they  were  left  to  suffer  on ;  per- 
haps inevitably  left  :  it  would  not  do  to  stop  the  progress  of 
invention,  to  damage  science  by  discouraging  its  improvements; 
the  war  could  not  be  terminated,  efficient  relief  could  not  be 
raised :  there  was  no  help  then ;  so  the  unemployed  underwent 
their  destiny — ate  the  bread  and  drank  the  waters  of  affliction. 
Misery  generates  hate  :  these  sufferers  hated  the  machines 
which  they  believed  took  their  bread  from  them  :  they  hated 
the  buildings  which  contained  those  machines  ;  they  hated 
the  manufacturers  who  owned  those  buildings.  In  the 
parish  of  Briarfield,  with  which  we  have  at  present  to  do, 
Ilollow's-mill  was  the  place  held  most  abominable  ;  Ge'rard 
Moore,  in  his  double  character  of  semi-foreigner  and 
thorough-going  progressist,  the  man  most  abominated.  And 


THE  WAGGONS  29 

it  perhaps  rather  agreed  with  Moore's  temperament  than 
otherwise  to  be  generally  hated ;  especially  when  he  believed 
the  thing  for  which  he  was  hated  a  right  and  an  expedient 
thing  ;  and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  warlike  excitement  he,  on 
this  night,  sat  in  his  counting-house  waiting  the  arrival  of 
his  frame-laden  waggons.  Malone's  coming  and  company 
were,  it  may  be,  most  unwelcome  to  him :  he  would  have 
preferred  sitting  alone  ;  for  he  liked  a  silent,  sombre,  unsafe 
solitude  :  his  watchman's  musket  would  have  been  company 
enough  for  him ;  the  full-flowing  beck  in  the  den  would 
have  delivered  continuously  the  discourse  most  genial  to 
his  ear. 

With  the  queerest  look  in  the  world,  had  the  manu- 
facturer for  some  ten  minutes  been  watching  the  Irish 
curate,  as  the  latter  made  free  with  the  punch ;  when 
suddenly  that  steady  gray  eye  changed,  as  if  another  vision 
came  between  it  and  Malone.  Moore  raised  his  hand. 

'  Chut ! '  he  said,  in  his  French  fashion,  as  Malone  made 
a  noise  with  his  glass.  He  listened  a  moment,  then  rose, 
put  his  hat  on,  and  went  out  at  the  counting-house  door. 

The  night  was  still,  dark,  and  stagnant ;  the  water  yet 
rushed  on  full  and  fast :  its  flow  almost  seemed  a  flood  in 
the  utter  silence.  Moore's  ear,  however,  caught  another 
sound — very  distant,  but  yet  dissimilar — broken  and  rugged  : 
in  short,  a  sound  of  heavy  wheels  crunching  a  stony  road. 
He  returned  to  the  counting-house  and  lit  a  lantern,  with 
which  he  walked  down  the  mill-yard,  and  proceeded  to  open 
the  gates.  The  big  waggons  were  coming  on  ;  the  dray- 
horses'  huge  hoofs  were  heard  splashing  in  the  mud  and 
water.  Moore  hailed  them. 

1  Hey,  Joe  Scott !     Is  all  right  ?  ' 

Probably  Joe  Scott  was  yet  at  too  great  a  distance  to  hear 
the  inquiry  ;  he  did  not  answer  it. 

'  Is  all  right,  I  say  ? '  again  asked  Moore  when  the 
elephant-like  leader's  nose  almost  touched  his. 

Some  one  jumped  out  from  the  foremost  waggon  into  the 


30  SHIRLEY 

road  ;  a  voice  cried  aloud,  '  Ay,  ay,  divil,  all's  raight !  We've 
smashed  'em.' 

And  there  was  a  run.  The  waggons  stood  still:  they 
were  now  deserted. 

'  Joe  Scott ! '  No  Joe  Scott  answered.  '  Murgatroyd ! 
Pighills  !  Sykes ! '  No  reply.  Mr.  Moore  lifted  his  lantern, 
and  looked  into  the  vehicles ;  there  was  neither  man  nor 
machinery :  they  were  empty  and  abandoned. 

Now  Mr.  Moore  loved  his  machinery  :  he  had  risked  the 
last  of  his  capital  on  the  purchase  of  these  frames  and  shears 
which  to-night  had  been  expected ;  speculations  most  impor- 
tant to  his  interests  depended  on  the  results  to  be  wrought 
by  them  :  where  were  they  ? 

The  words  '  We've  smashed  'em  !  '  rang  in  his  ears.  How 
did  the  catastrophe  affect  him  ?  By  the  light  of  the  lantern 
he  held,  were  his  features  visible,  relaxing  to  a  singular 
smile  :  the  smile  the  man  of  determined  spirit  wears  when  he 
reaches  a  juncture  in  his  life  where  this  determined  spirit  is 
to  feel  a  demand  on  its  strength  :  when  the  strain  is  to  be 
made,  and  the  faculty  must  bear  or  break.  Yet  he  remained 
silent,  and  even  motionless  ;  for  at  the  instant  he  neither 
knew  what  to  say  nor  what  to  do.  He  placed  the  lantern  on 
the  ground,  and  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  gazing  down  and 
reflecting. 

An  impatient  trampling  of  one  of  the  horses  made  him 
presently  look  up  ;  his  eye  in  the  moment  caught  the  gleam 
of  something  white  attached  to  a  part  of  the  harness. 
Examined  by  the  light  of  the  lantern,  this  proved  to  be  a 
folded  paper — a  billet.  It  bore  no  address  without ;  within 
was  the  superscription  :— 'To  the  Divil  of  Hollow's-miln.' 

We  will  not  copy  the  rest  of  the  orthography,  which  was 
very  peculiar,  but  translate  it  into  legible  English.  It  ran 
thus :  '  Your  hellish  machinery  is  shivered  to  smash  on 
Stilbro'  Moor,  and  your  men  are  lying  bound  hand  and  foot 
in  a  ditch  by  the  roadside.  Take  this  as  a  warning  from  men 
that  are  starving,  and  have  starving  wives  and  children  to  go 
home  to  when  they  have  done  this  deed.  If  you  get  new 


THE  WAGGONS  31 

machines,  or  if  you  otherwise  go  on  as  you  have  done,  you 
shall  hear  from  us  again.  Beware  ! ' 

'  Hear  from  you  again  ?  Yes  ;  I'll  hear  from  you  again, 
and  you  shall  hear  from  me.  I'll  speak  to  you  directly  :  on 
Stilbro'  Moor  you  shall  hear  from  me  in  a  moment.' 

Having  led  the  waggons  within  the  gates,  he  hastened 
towards  the  cottage.  Opening  the  door,  he  spoke  a  few 
words  quickly  but  quietly  to  two  females  who  ran  to  meet 
him  in  the  passage.  He  calmed  the  seeming  alarm  of  one 
by  a  brief  palliative  account  of  what  had  taken  place ;  to 
the  other  he  said,  '  Go  into  the  mill,  Sarah — there  is  the  key 
— and  ring  the  mill-bell  as  loud  as  you  can  :  afterwards  you 
will  get  another  lantern  and  help  me  to  light  up  the  front.' 

Returning  to  his  horses,  he  unharnessed,  fed,  and  stabled 
them  with  equal  speed  and  care,  pausing  occasionally,  while 
so  occupied,  as  if  to  listen  for  the  mill-bell.  It  clanged  out 
presently,  with  irregular  but  loud  and  alarming  din :  the 
hurried  agitated  peal  seemed  more  urgent  than  if  the  sum- 
mons had  been  steadily  given  by  a  practised  hand.  On  that 
still  night,  at  that  unusual  hour,  it  was  heard  a  long  way 
round  :  the  guests  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Redhouse  were 
startled  by  the  clangour ;  and,  declaring  that  '  there  must  be 
summat  more  nor  common  to  do  at  Hollow's-miln,'  they 
called  for  lanterns,  and  hurried  to  the  spot  in  a  body.  And 
scarcely  had  they  thronged  into  the  yard  with  their  gleaming 
lights,  when  the  tramp  of  horses  was  heaid,  and  a  little  man 
in  a  shovel  hat,  sitting  erect  on  the  back  of  a  shaggy  pony, 
'  rode  lightly  in,'  followed  by  an  aide-de-camp  mounted  on  a 
larger  steed. 

Mr.  Moore,  meantime,  after  stabling  his  dray-horses,  had 
saddled  his  hackney  ;  and  with  the  aid  of  Sarah,  the  servant, 
lit  up  his  mill ;  whose  wide  and  long  front  now  glared  one 
great  illumination,  throwing  a  sufficient  light  on  the  yard  to 
obviate  all  fear  of  confusion  arising  from  obscurity.  Already 
a  deep  hum  of  voices  became  audible.  Mr.  Malone  had  at 
length  issued  from  the  counting-house,  previously  taking  the 
precaution  to  dip  his  head  and  face  in  the  stone  water-jar  ; 


32  SHIELEY 

and  this  precaution,  together  with  the  sudden  alarm,  had 
nearly  restored  to  him  the  possession  of  those  senses  which 
the  punch  had  partially  scattered.  He  stood  with  his  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  shillelagh  grasped  in  his  dexter 
fist,  answering  much  at  random  the  questions  of  the  newly- 
arrived  party  from  the  Redhouse.  Mr.  Moore  now  appeared, 
and  was  immediately  confronted  by  the  shovel  hat  and  the 
shaggy  pony. 

'  Well,  Moore,  what  is  your  business  with  us  ?  I  thought 
you  would  want  us  to-night :  me  and  the  hetman  here 
(patting  his  pony's  neck),  and  Tom  and  his  charger.  When 
I  heard  your  mill-bell,  I  could  sit  still  no  longer,  so  I  left 
Boultby  to  finish  his  supper  alone  :  but  where  is  the  enemy  ? 
I  do  not  see  a  mask  or  a  smutted  face  present ;  and  there 
is  not  a  pane  of  glass  broken  in  your  windows.  Have  you 
had  an  attack,  or  do  you  expect  one  ? ' 

'  Oh,  not  at  all !  I  have  neither  had  one  nor  expect  one,' 
answered  Moore,  coolly.  '  I  only  ordered  the  bell  to  be 
rung  because  I  want  two  or  three  neighbours  to  stay  here 
in  the  Hollow  while  I  and  a  couple  or  so  more  go  over  to 
Stilbro'  Moor.' 

'To  Stilbro'  Moor!  What  to  do?  To  meet  the  wag- 
gons ? ' 

1  The  waggons  are  come  home  an  hour  ago.' 

'  Then  all's  right.     What  more  would  you  have  ?  ' 

'  They  came  home  empty ;  and  Joe  Scott  and  Company  are 
left  on  the  moor,  and  so  are  the  frames.  Bead  that  scrawl.' 

Mr.  Helstone  received  and  perused  the  document  of 
which  the  contents  have  before  been  given. 

'  Hum  !  They've  only  served  you  as  they  serve  others. 
But,  however,  the  poor  fellows  in  the  ditch  will  be  expecting 
help  with  some  impatience :  this  is  a  wet  night  for  such  a 
berth.  I  and  Tom  will  go  with  you ;  Malone  may  stay 
behind  and  take  care  of  the  mill :  what  is  the  matter  with 
him  ?  His  eyes  seem  starting  out  of  his  head.' 

'  He  has  been  eating  a  mutton-chop.' 

'  Indeed !     Peter  Augustus,  be  on  your  guard.     Eat  no 


THE  WAGGONS  33 

more  mutton-chops  to-night.  You  are  left  here  in  command 
of  these  premises  :  an  honourable  post ! ' 

'  Is  anybody  to  stay  with  me  ?  ' 

'  As  many  of  the  present  assemblage  as  choose.  My  lads, 
how  many  of  you  will  remain  here,  and  how  many  will  go 
a  little  way  with  me  and  Mr.  Moore  on  the  Stilbro'-road,  to 
meet  some  men  who  have  been  waylaid  and  assaulted  by 
frame-breakers  ? ' 

The  small  number  of  three  volunteered  to  go ;  the  rest 
preferred  staying  behind.  As  Mr.  Moore  mounted  his  horse, 
the  Kector  asked  him  in  a  low  voice  whether  he  had  locked 
up  the  mutton-chops,  so  that  Peter  Augustus  could  not  get 
at  them  ?  The  manufacturer  nodded  an  affirmative,  and  the 
rescue-party  set  out. 


CHAPTEB  III 

MB.   YOKKE 

CHEERFULNESS,  it  would  appear,  is  a  matter  which  depends 
fully  as  much  on  the  state  of  things  within,  as  on  the  state 
of  things  without  and  around  us.  I  make  this  trite  remark, 
because  I  happen  to  know  that  Messrs.  Helstone  and  Moore 
trotted  forth  from  the  mill-yard  gates,  at  the  head  of  their 
very  small  company,  in  the  best  possible  spirits.  When  a 
ray  from  a  lantern  (the  three  pedestrians  of  the  party  carried 
each  one)  fell  on  Mr.  Moore's  face,  you  could  see  an  unusual, 
because  a  lively,  spark  dancing  in  his  eyes,  and  a  new-found 
vivacity  mantling  on  his  dark  physiognomy  ;  and  when  the 
Rector's  visage  was  illuminated,  his  hard  features  were 
revealed  all  agrin  and  ashine  with  glee.  Yet  a  drizzling 
night,  a  somewhat  perilous  expedition,  you  would  think  were 
not  circumstances  calculated  to  enliven  those  exposed  to  the 
wet  and  engaged  in  the  adventure.  If  any  member  or 
members  of  the  crew  who  had  been  at  work  on  Stilbro'  Moor 
had  caught  a  view  of  this  party,  they  would  have  had  great 
pleasure  in  shooting  either  of  the  leaders  from  behind  a  wall : 
and  the  leaders  knew  this  ;  and,  the  fact  is,  being  both  men 
of  steely  nerves  and  steady-beating  hearts,  were  elate  with 
the  knowledge. 

I  am  aware,  reader,  and  you  need  not  remind  me,  that  it 
is  a  dreadful  thing  for  a  parson  to  be  warlike  :  I  am  aware 
that  he  should  be  a  man  of  peace.  I  have  some  faint  outline 
of  an  idea  of  what,  a  clergyman's  mission  is  amongst  man- 
kind, and  I  remember  distinctly  whose  servant  he  is  ;  whose 
message  he  delivers,  whose  example  he  should  follow ;  yet, 


ME.  YOEKE  35 

with  all  this,  if  you  are  a  parson-hater,  you  need  not  expect 
me  to  go  along  with  you  every  step  of  your  dismal,  down- 
ward-tending unchristian  road ;  you  need  not  expect  me  to 
join  in  your  deep  anathemas,  at  once  so  narrow  and  so  sweep- 
ing— in  your  poisonous  rancour,  so  intense  and  so  absurd, 
against  '  the  cloth ;  '  to  lift  up  my  eyes  and  hands  with  a 
Supplehough,  or  to  inflate  my  lungs  with  a  Barraclough,  in 
horror  and  denunciation  of  the  diabolical  Eector  of  Briarfield. 
He  was  not  diabolical  at  all.     The  evil  simply  was — he 
had  missed  his  vocation :  he  should  have  been  a  soldier, 
and  circumstances  had  made  him  a  priest.     For  the  rest,  he 
was  a  conscientious,  hard-headed,  hard-handed,  brave,  stern, 
implacable,  faithful  little  man :  a  man  almost  without  sym- 
pathy, ungentle,  prejudiced,  and  rigid :  but  a  man  true  to 
principle — honourable,  sagacious,  and  sincere.     It  seems  to 
me,  reader,  that  you  cannot  always  cut  out  men  to  fit  their 
profession,  and  that  you  ought  not  to  curse  them  because 
that  profession  sometimes  hangs  on  them  ungracefully  :  nor 
will  I  curse  Helstone,  clerical  Cossack  as  he  was.     Yet  he 
was   cursed,  and  by  many  of  his  own  parishioners,  as  by 
others  he  was  adored :  which  is  the  frequent  fate  of  men 
who  show  partiality  in  friendship  and  bitterness  in  enmity ; 
who  are  equally  attached  to  principles  and  adherent   to 
prejudices. 

Helstone  and  Moore,  being  both  in  excellent  spirits,  and 
united  for  the  present  in  one  cause,  you  would  expect  that, 
as  they  rode  side  by  side,  they  would  converse  amicably. 
Oh,  no  !  These  two  men,  of  hard  bilious  natures  both, 
rarely  came  into  contact  but  they  chafed  each  other's  moods. 
Their  frequent  bone  of  contention  was  the  war.  Helstone 
was  a  high  Tory  (there  were  Tories  in  those  days),  and 
Moore  was  a  bitter  Whig — a  Whig,  at  least,  as  far  as  oppo- 
sition to  the  war-party  was  concerned  :  that  being  the  question 
which  affected  his  own  interest ;  and  only  on  that  question 
did  he  profess  any  British  politics  at  all.  He  liked  to  in- 
furiate Helstone  by  declaring  his  belief  in  the  invincibility 
of  Bonaparte;  by  taunting  England  and  Europe  with  the 


36  SHIKLEY 

impotence  of  their  efforts  to  withstand  him ;  and  by  coolly 
advancing  the  opinion  that  it  was  as  well  to  yield  to  him 
soon  as  late,  since  he  must  in  the  end  crush  every  antagonist, 
and  reign  supreme. 

Helstone  could  not  bear  these  sentiments :  it  was  only 
on  the  consideration  of  Moore  being  a  sort  of  outcast  and 
alien,  and  having  but  half  measure  of  British  blood  to  temper 
the  foreign  gall  which  corroded  his  veins,  that  he  brought 
himself  to  listen  to  them  without  indulging  the  wish  he  felt 
to  cane  the  speaker.  Another  thing,  too,  somewhat  allayed 
his  disgust ;  namely,  a  fellow-feeling  for  the  dogged  tone 
with  which  these  opinions  were  asserted,  and  a  respect  for 
the  consistency  of  Moore's  crabbed  contumacy. 

As  the  party  turned  into  the  Stilbro'-road,  they  met  what 
little  wind  there  was  ;  the  rain  dashed  in  their  faces.  Moore 
had  been  fretting  his  companion  previously,  and  now,  braced 
up  by  the  raw  breeze,  and  perhaps  irritated  by  the  sharp 
drizzle,  he  began  to  goad  him. 

'Does  your  Peninsular  news  please  you  still?'  he 
asked. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  was  the  surly  demand  of  the 
Rector. 

1 1  mean  have  you  still  faith  in  that  Baal  of  a  Lord 
Wellington  ? ' 

'  And  what  do  you  mean  now  ?  ' 

'  Do  you  still  believe  that  this  wooden-faced  and  pebble- 
hearted  idol  of  England  has  power  to  call  fire  down  from 
heaven  to  consume  the  French  holocaust  you  want  to  offer 
up?' 

1 1  believe  Wellington  will  flog  Bonaparte's  marshals 
into  the  sea  the  day  it  pleases  him  to  lift  his  arm.' 

'  But,  my  dear  sir,  you  can't  be  serious  in  what  you  say. 
Bonaparte's  marshals  are  great  men,  who  act  under  the 
guidance  of  an  omnipotent  master-spirit ;  your  Wellington 
is  the  most  humdrum  of  common-place  martinets,  whose 
slow  mechanical  movements  are  further  cramped  by  an 
ignorant  home-government.' 


ME.  YOEKE  37 

'  Wellington  is  the  soul  of  England.  *  Wellington  is  the 
right  champion  of  a  good  cause ;  the  fit  representative  of  a 
powerful,  a  resolute,  a  sensible,  and  an  honest  nation.' 

'Your  good  cause,  as  far  as  I  understand  it,  is  simply 
the  restoration  of  that  filthy,  feeble  Ferdinand,  to  a  throne 
which  he  disgraced ;  your  fit  representative  of  an  honest 
people  is  a  dull-witted  drover,  acting  for  a  duller- witted 
farmer ;  and  against  these  are  arrayed  victorious  supremacy 
and  invincible  genius.' 

'  Against  legitimacy  is  arrayed  usurpation ;  against 
modest,  single-minded,  righteous,  and  brave  resistance  to 
encroachment,  is  arrayed  boastful,  double-tongued,  selfish, 
and  treacherous  ambition  to  possess.  God  defend  the  right ! ' 

1  God  often  defends  the  powerful.' 

1  What !  I  suppose  the  handful  of  Israelites  standing 
dry-shod  on  the  Asiatic  side  of  the  Bed  Sea,  was  more 
powerful  than  the  host  of  the  Egyptians  drawn  up  on  the 
African  side  ?  Were  they  more  numerous  ?  Were  they 
better  appointed  ?  Were  they  more  mighty,  in  a  word — eh  ? 
Don't  speak,  or  you'll  tell  a  lie,  Moore ;  you  know  you  will. 
They  were  a  poor  over- wrought  band  of  bondsmen.  Tyrants 
had  oppressed  them  through  four  hundred  years ;  a  feeble 
mixture  of  women  and  children  diluted  their  thin  ranks  ; 
their  masters,  who  roared  to  follow .  them  through  the 
divided  flood,  were  a  set  of  pampered  Ethiops,  about  as 
strong  and  brutal  as  the  lions  of  Libya.  They  were  armed, 
horsed,  and  charioted,  the  poor  Hebrew  wanderers  were 
afoot;  few  of  them,  it  is  likely,  had  better  weapons  than 
their  shepherds'  crooks,  or  their  masons'  building-tools  ; 
their  meek  and  mighty  leader  himself  had  only  his  rod. 
But  bethink  you,  Eobert  Moore,  right  was  with  them ;  the 
God  of  battles  was  on  their  side.  Crime  and  the  lost  arch- 
angel generalled  the  ranks  of  Pharaoh,  and  which  triumphed  ? 
We  know  that  well :  "  The  Lord  saved  Israel  that  day  out 
of  the  hand  of  the  Egyptians,  and  Israel  saw  the  Egyptians 
dead  upon  the  sea-shore  ;  "  yea,  "  the  depths  covered  them, 
they  sank  to  the  bottom  as  a  stone."  The  right  hand  of  the 


38  SHIRLEY 

Lord  became  glorious  in  power  ;  the  right  hand  of  the  Lord 
dashed  in  pieces  the  enemy ! ' 

'  You  are  all  right ;  only  you  forget  the  true  parallel : 
France  is  Israel,  and  Napoleon  is  Moses.  Europe,  with  her 
old  over-gorged  empires  and  rotten  dynasties,  is  corrupt 
Egypt ;  gallant  France  is  the  Twelve  Tribes,  and  her  fresh 
and  vigorous  Usurper  the  Shepherd  of  Horeb.' 

'  I  scorn  to  answer  you.' 

Moore  accordingly  answered  himself ;  at  least  he  sub- 
joined to  what  he  had  just  said  an  additional  observation  in 
a  lower  voice. 

'  Oh,  in  Italy  he  was  as  great  as  any  Moses  !  He  was 
the  right  thing  there  ;  fit  to  head  and  organise  measures  for 
the  regeneration  of  nations.  It  puzzles  me  to  this  day  how 
the  conqueror  of  Lodi  should  have  condescended  to  become 
an  emperor — a  vulgar,  a  stupid  humbug ;  and  still  more 
how  a  people,  who  had  once  called  themselves  republicans, 
should  have  sunk  again  to  the  grade  of  mere  slaves.  I 
despise  France  !  If  England  had  gone  as  far  on  the  march 
of  civilisation  as  France  did,  she  would  hardly  have  retreated 
so  shamelessly.' 

1  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  besotted  imperial  France 
is  any  worse  than  bloody  republican  France  ? '  demanded 
Helstone  fiercely.  . 

'  I  mean  to  say  nothing  :  but  I  can  think  what  I  please, 
you  know,  Mr.  Helstone,  both  about  France  and  England ; 
and  about  revolutions,  and  regicides,  and  restorations  in 
general ;  and  about  the  divine  right  of  kings,  which  you  often 
stickle  for  in  your  sermons,  and  the  duty  of  non-resistance, 
and  the  sanity  of  war,  and — 

Mr.  Moore's  sentence  was  here  cut  short  by  the  rapid 
rolling  up  of  a  gig,  and  its  sudden  stoppage  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  ;  both  he  and  the  Eector  had  been  too  much 
occupied  with  their  discoui-se  to  notice  its  approach  till  it 
was  close  upon  them. 

'  Nab,  maister,  did  th'  waggons  hit  home  ? '  demanded  a 
voice  fi'om  the  vehicle. 


MR  YOKKE  39 

1  Can  that  be  Joe  Scott  ? ' 

'  Ay,  ay  ! '  returned  another  voice  ;  for  the  gig  contained 
two  persons,  as  was  seen  by  the  glimmer  of  its  lamp :  the 
men  with  the  lanterns  had  now  fallen  into  the  rear,  or 
rather,  the  equestrians  of  the  rescue-party  had  outridden  the 
pedestrians.  '  Ay,  Mr.  Moore,  it's  Joe  Scott.  I'm  bringing 
him  back  to  you  in  a  bonny  pickle.  I  fand  him  on  the  top 
of  the  moor  yonder,  him  and  three  others.  What  will  you 
give  me  for  restoring  him  to  you  ? ' 

'  Why,  my  thanks,  I  believe ;  for  I  could  better  have 
afforded  to  lose  a  better  man.  That  is  you,  I  suppose,  Mr. 
Yorke,  by  your  voice  ?  ' 

'Ay,  lad,  it's  me.  I  was  coming  home  from  Stilbro' 
market,  and  just  as  I  got  to  the  middle  of  the  moor, 
and  was  whipping  on  as  swift  as  the  wind  (for  these,  they 
say,  are  not  safe  times,  thanks  to  a  bad  government !)  I 
heard  a  groan.  I  pulled  up:  some  would  have  whipt  on 
faster ;  but  I've  naught  to  fear,  that  I  know  of.  I  don't 
believe  there's  a  lad  in  these  parts  would  harm  me :  at  least 
I'd  give  them  as  good  as  I  got  if  they  offered  to  do  it.  I 
said,  "  Is  there  aught  wrong  anywhere  ?  " — "  'Deed  is  there," 
somebody  says,  speaking  out  of  the  ground,  like.  "  What's 
to  do  ?  be  sharp,  and  tell  me,"  I  ordered. — "  Nobbut  four 
on  us  ligging  in  a  ditch,"  says  Joe,  as  quiet  as  could  be.  I 
tell'd  'em,  more  shame  to  'em,  and  bid  them  get  up  and 
move  on,  or  I'd  lend  them  a  lick  of  the  gig-whip ;  for  my 
notion  was,  they  were  all  fresh. — "  We'd  ha'  done  that  an 
hour  sin'  ;  but  we're  teed  wi'  a  bit  o'  band,"  says  Joe.  So  in  a 
while  I  got  down  and  loosed  'em  wi1  my  penknife  :  and  Scott 
would  ride  wi'  me,  to  tell  me  all  how  it  happened ;  and  t' 
others  are  coming  on  as  fast  as  their  feet  will  bring  them.' 

'  Well,  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Yorke.' 

'  Are  you,  my  lad  ?  you  know  you're  not.  However, 
here  are  the  rest  approaching.  And  here,  by  the  Lord  !  is 
another  set  with  lights  in  their  pitchers,  like  the  army  of 
Gideon  ;  and  as  we've  th'  parson  wi'  us — good  evening,  Mr. 
Helstoue — we'se  do.' 


40  SHIBLEY 

Mr.  Helstone  returned  the  salutation  of  the  individual  in 
the  gig  very  stiffly  indeed.  That  individual  proceeded : — 
'  We're  eleven  strong  men,  and  there's  both  horses  and 
chariots  amang  us.  If  we  could  only  fall  in  \vi'  some  of 
these  starved  ragamuffins  of  frame-breakers,  we  could  win 
a  grand  victory ;  we  could  iv'ry  one  be  a  Wellington — that 
would  please  ye,  Mr.  Helstone ;  and  sich  paragraphs  as  we 
could  contrive  for  t'  papers  !  Briarfield  suld  be  famous : 
but  we'se  hev  a  column  and  a  half  i'  th'  Stilbro'  Courier 
ower  this  job,  as  it  is,  I  daresay  :  I'se  expect  no  less.' 

'  And  I'll  promise  you  no  less,  Mr.  Yorke,  for  I'll  write 
the  article  myself,'  returned  the  Kector. 

'  To  be  sure !  sartainly  !  And  mind  ye  recommend  weel 
that  them  'at  brake  t'  bits  o'  frames,  and  teed  Joe  Scott's 
legs  wi'  band,  suld  be  hung  without  benefit  o'  clergy.  It's  a 
hanging  matter,  or  suld  be  ;  no  doubt  o'  that.' 

'  If  I  judged  them,  I'd  give  them  short  shrift ! '  cried 
Moore  ;  '  but  I  mean  to  let  them  quite  alone  this  bout,  to 
give  them  rope  enough,  certain  that  in  the  end  they  will 
hang  themselves.' 

'  Let  them  alone,  will  ye,  Moore  ?  Do  you  promise 
that  ? ' 

'  Promise  ?  No.  All  I  mean  to  say  is,  I  shall  give  my- 
self no  particular  trouble  to  catch  them ;  but  if  one  falls  in 
my  way ' 

'  You'll  snap  him  up,  of  course :  only  you  would  rather 
they  would  do  something  worse  than  merely  stop  a  waggon 
before  you  reckon  with  them.  Well,  we'll  say  no  more  on 
the  subject  at  present.  Here  we  are  at  my  door,  gentlemen, 
and  I  hope  you  and  the  men  will  step  in  :  you  will  none  of 
you  be  the  worse  of  a  little  refreshment.' 

Moore  and  Helstone  opposed  this  proposition  as  un- 
necessary ;  it  was,  however,  pressed  on  them  so  courteously, 
and  the  night,  besides,  was  so  inclement,  and  the  gleam  from 
the  muslin-cui'tained  windows  of  the  house  before  which 
they  had  halted,  looked  so  inviting,  that  at  length  they 
yielded.  Mr.  Yorke,  after  having  alighted  from  his  gig 


MB.  YORKE  41 

which  he  left  in  charge  of  a  man  who  issued  from  an  out- 
building on  his  arrival,  led  the  way  in. 

It  will  have  been  remarked  that  Mr.  Yorke  varied  a  little 
in  his  phraseology ;  now  he  spoke  broad  Yorkshire,  and 
anon  he  expressed  himself  in  very  pure  English.  His 
manner  seemed  liable  to  equal  alternations;  he  could  be 
polite  and  affable,  and  he  could  be  blunt  and  rough.  His 
station  then  you  could  not  easily  determine  by  his  speech  or 
demeanour ;  perhaps  the  appearance  of  his  residence  may 
decide  it. 

The  men  he  recommended  to  take  the  kitchen  way, 
saying  that  he  would  '  see  them  served  wi'  summat  to  taste 
presently.'  The  gentlemen  were  ushered  in  at  the  front 
entrance.  They  found  themselves  in  a  matted  hall,  lined 
almost  to  the  ceiling  with  pictures ;  through  this  they  were 
conducted  to  a  large  parlour,  with  a  magnificent  fire  in  the 
grate ;  the  most  cheerful  of  rooms  it  appeared  as  a  whole, 
and  when  you  came  to  examine  details,  the  enlivening  effect 
was  not  diminished.  There  was  no  splendour,  but  there  was 
taste  everywhere, — unusual  taste, — the  taste,  you  would  have 
said,  of  a  travelled  man,  a  scholar,  and  a  gentleman.  A 
series  of  Italian  views  decked  the  walls ;  each  of  these  was 
a  specimen  of  true  art ;  a  connoisseur  had  selected  them  : 
they  were  genuine  and  valuable.  Even  by  candlelight,  the 
bright  clear  skies,  the  soft  distances,  with  blue  air  quivering 
between  the  eye  and  the  hills,  the  fresh  tints,  and  well 
massed  lights  and  shadows,  charmed  the  view.  The  subjects 
were  all  pastoral,  the  scenes  were  all  sunny.  There  was  a 
guitar  and  some  music  on  a  sofa ;  there  were  cameos, 
beautiful  miniatures  ;  a  set  of  Grecian-looking  vases  on  the 
mantelpiece ;  there  were  books  well  arranged  in  two  elegant 
bookcases. 

Mr.  Yorke  bade  his  guests  be  seated :  he  then  rang  for 
wine ;  to  the  servant  who  brought  it  he  gave  hospitable 
orders  for  the  refreshment  of  the  men  in  the  kitchen.  The 
Rector  remained  standing  ;  he  seemed  not  to  like  his 
quarters ;  he  would  not  touch  the  wine  his  host  offered  him. 


42  SHIBLEY 

1  E'en  aa  you  will,'  remarked  Mr.  Yorke.  '  I  reckon 
you're  thinking  of  Eastern  customs,  Mr.  Helstone,  and  you'll 
not  eat  nor  drink  under  my  roof,  feared  we  suld  be  forced  to 
be  friends ;  but  I'm  not  so  particular  or  superstitious.  You 
might  sup  the  contents  of  that  decanter,  and  you  might  give 
me  a  bottle  of  the  best  in  your  own  cellar,  and  I'd  hold 
myself  free  to  oppose  you  at  every  turn  still, — in  every 
vestry-meeting  and  justice-meeting  where  we  encountered 
one  another.' 

'  It  is  just  what  I  should  expect  of  you,  Mr.  Yorke.' 

'  Does  it  agree  wi'  ye  now,  Mr.  Helstone,  to  be  riding 
out  after  rioters,  of  a  wet  night,  at  your  age  ?  ' 

'  It  always  agrees  with  me  to  be  doing  my  duty  ;  and  in 
this  case  my  duty  is  a  thorough  pleasure.  To  hunt  down 
vermin  is  a  noble  occupation, — fit  for  an  archbishop.' 

'  Fit  for  ye,  at  ony  rate :  but  where's  t'  curate  ?  He's 
happen  gone  to  visit  some  poor  body  in  a  sick  gird,  or  he's 
happen  hunting  down  vermin  in  another  direction.' 

'  He  is  doing  garrison-duty  at  Hollow's-mill.' 

1  You  left  him  a  sup  o*  wine,  I  hope,  Bob '  (turning  to 
Mr.  Moore),  '  to  keep  his  courage  up  ?  ' 

He  did  not  pause  for  an  answer,  but  continued,  quickly 
— still  addressing  Moore,  who  had  thrown  himself  into  an 
old-fashioned  chair  by  the  fireside, — '  Move  it,  Robert !  Get 
up,  my  lad  !  That  place  is  mine.  Take  the  sofa,  or  three 
other  chairs,  if  you  will,  but  not  this ;  it  belangs  to  me,  and 
nob'dy  else.' 

'  Why  are  you  so  particular  to  that  chair,  Mr.  Yorke  ? ' 
asked  Moore,  lazily  vacating  the  place,  in  obedience  to 
orders. 

'  My  father  war  afore  me,  and  that's  all  t*  answer  I  sail 
gie  thee ;  and  it's  as  good  a  reason  as  Mr.  Helstone  can  give 
for  the  main  feck  o'  his  notions.' 

'  Moore,  are  you  ready  to  go  ?  '  inquired  the  Eector. 

'  Nay  ;  Robert's  not  ready ;  or  rather  I'm  not  ready  to 
part  wi'  him  :  he's  an  ill  lad,  and  wants  correcting.' 

'  Why,  sir  ?     What  have  I  done  ?  ' 


ME.  YOKKB  43 

'  Made  thyself  enemies  on  every  hand.' 

1  What  do  I  care  for  that  ?  What  difference  does  it 
make  to  me  whether  your  Yorkshire  louts  hate  me  or  like 
me?' 

1  Ay,  there  it  is.  The  lad  is  a  mak'  of  an  alien  amang 
us :  his  father  would  never  have  talked  i*  that  way.  Go 
back  to  Antwerp,  where  you  were  born  and  bred,  mauvaise 
tete!' 

'  Mauvaise  tete  vous-m&me  ;  je  ne  fais  que  mon  devoir : 
quant  a  vos  lourdauds  de  paysans,  je  m'en  moque ! ' 

1  En  revanche,  mon  gargon,  nos  lourdauds  de  paysans  se 
moqueront  de  toi ;  sois  en  certain,'  replied  Yorke,  speaking 
with  nearly  as  pure  a  French  accent  as  Gerard  Moore. 

'  C'est  bon  !  c'est  bon  !  Et  puisque  cela  m'est  6gal,  que 
mes  amis  ne  s'en  inquietent  pas.' 

'  Tes  amis !     Oil  sont-ils,  tes  amis  ? ' 

1  Je  fais  6cho,  ou  sont-ils  ?  et  je  suis  fort  aise  que  l'6cho 
seul  y  repond.  Au  diable  les  amis  !  Je  me  souviens  encore 
du  moment  ou  mon  pere  et  mes  oncles  Gerard  appellerent 
autour  d'eux  leurs  amis,  et  Dieu  sait  si  les  amis  se  sont 
empresses  d'accourir  a  leur  secours !  Tenez,  M.  Yorke,  ce 
mot,  ami,  m'irrite  trop  ;  ne  m'en  parlez  plus.' 

'  Comme  tu  voudras.' 

And  here  Mr.  Yorke  held  his  peace ;  and  while  he  sits 
leaning  back  in  his  three-cornered,  carved  oak  chair,  I  will 
snatch  my  opportunity  to  sketch  the  portrait  of  this  French- 
speaking  Yorkshire  gentleman. 


CHAPTER  IV 
MB.  YORKE  (CONTINUED) 

A  YORKSHIRE  gentleman  he  was,  par  excellence,  in  every 
point.  About  fifty-five  years  old,  but  looking  at  first  sight 
still  older,  for  his  hair  was  silver  white.  His  forehead  was 
broad,  not  high ;  his  face  fresh  and  hale  ;  the  harshness  of 
the  north  was  seen  in  his  features,  as  it  was  heard  in  his 
voice ;  every  trait  was  thoroughly  English,  not  a  Norman 
line  anywhere ;  it  was  an  inelegant,  unclassic,  unaristo- 
cratic  mould  of  visage.  Fine  people  would  perhaps  have 
called  it  vulgar ;  sensible  people  would  have  termed  it 
characteristic  ;  shrewd  people  would  have  delighted  in  it  for 
the  pith,  sagacity,  intelligence — the  rude,  yet  real  originality 
marked  in  every  lineament,  latent  in  every  furrow.  But  it 
was  an  indocile,  a  scornful,  and  a  sarcastic  face ;  the  face 
of  a  man  difficult  to  lead,  and  impossible  to  drive.  His 
stature  was  rather  tall,  and  he  was  well-made  and  wiry,  and 
had  a  stately  integrity  of  port ;  there  was  not  a  suspicion  of 
the  clown  about  him  anywhere. 

I  did  not  find  it  easy  to  sketch  Mr.  Yorke's  person,  but 
it  is  more  difficult  to  indicate  his  mind.  If  you  expect  to  be 
treated  to  a  Perfection,  reader,  or  even  to  a  benevolent,  philan- 
thropic old  gentleman  in  him,  you  are  mistaken.  He  has 
spoken  with  some  sense,  and  with  some  good  feeling,  to  Mr. 
Moore  ;  but  you  are  not  thence  to  conclude  that  he  always 
spoke  and  thought  justly  and  kindly. 

Mr.  Yorke,  in  the  first  place,  was  without  the  organ  of 
Veneration — a  great  want,  and  which  throws  a  man  wrong 
on  every  point  where  veneration  is  required.  Secondly,  he 


ME.  YOEKE  45 

was  without  the  organ  of  Comparison — a  deficiency  which 
strips  a  man  of  sympathy  ;  and,  thirdly,  he  had  too  little  of 
the  organs  of  Benevolence  and  Ideality,  which  took  the  glory 
and  softness  from  his  nature,  and  for  him  diminished  those 
divine  qualities  throughout  the  universe. 

The  want  of  veneration  made  him  intolerant  to  those 
above  him  :  kings  and  nobles  and  priests,  dynasties  and 
parliaments  and  establishments,  with  all  their  doings,  most 
of  their  enactments,  their  forms,  their  rights,  their  claims, 
were  to  him  an  abomination — all  rubbish  ;  he  found  no  use 
or  pleasure  in  them,  and  believed  it  would  bs  clear  gain,  and 
no  damage  to  the  world,  if  its  high  places  were  razed,  and 
their  occupants  crushed  in  the  fall.  The  want  of  veneration, 
too,  made  him  dead  at  heart  to  the  electric  delight  of  admir- 
ing what  is  admirable  ;  it  dried  up  a  thousand  pure  sources 
of  enjoyment ;  it  withered  a  thousand  vivid  pleasures.  He 
was  not  irreligious,  though  a  member  of  no  sect ;  but  his 
religion  could  not  be  that  of  one  who  knows  how  to  venerate. 
He  believed  in  God  and  heaven ;  but  his  God  and  heaven 
were  those  of  a  man  in  whom  awe,  imagination,  and  tender- 
ness lack. 

The  weakness  of  his  powers  of  comparison  made  him 
inconsistent ;  while  he  professed  some  excellent  general 
doctrines  of  mutual  toleration  and  forbearance,  he  cherished 
towards  certain  classes  a  bigoted  antipathy :  he  spoke  of 
'  parsons  '  and  all  who  belonged  to  parsons,  of  '  lords  '  and 
the  appendages  of  lords,  with  a  harshness,  sometimes  an 
insolence,  as  unjust  as  it  was  insufferable.  He  could  not 
place  himself  in  the  position  of  those  he  vituperated  :  he 
could  not  compare  their  errors  with  their  temptations,  their 
defects  with  their  disadvantages ;  he  could  not  realise  the 
effect  of  such  and  such  circumstances  on  himself  similarly 
situated,  and  he  would  often  express  the  most  ferocious  and 
tyrannical  wishes  regarding  those  who  had  acted,  as  he 
thought,  ferociously  and  tyrannically.  To  judge  by  his 
threats,  he  would  have  employed  arbitrary,  even  cruel, 
means  to  advance  the  cause  of  freedom  and  equality, 


46  SHIRLEY 

Equality —yes,  Mr.  Yorke  talked  about  equality,  but  at 
heart  he  was  a  proud  man  :  very  friendly  to  his  workpeople, 
very  good  to  all  who  were  beneath  him,  and  submitted 
quietly  to  be  beneath  him,  but  haughty  as  Beelzebub  to 
whomsoever  the  world  deemed  (for  he  deemed  no  man) 
his  superior.  Revolt  was  in  his  blood  :  he  could  not  bear 
control ;  his  father,  his  grandfather  before  him,  could  not 
bear  it,  and  his  children  after  him  never  could. 

The  want  of  general  benevolence  made  him  very  impatient 
of  imbecility,  and  of  all  faults  which  grated  on  his  strong, 
shrewd  nature  :  it  left  no  check  to  his  cutting  sarcasm.  As 
he  was  not  merciful,  he  would  sometimes  wound  and  wound 
again,  without  noticing  how  much  he  hurt,  or  caring  how 
deep  he  thrust. 

As  to  the  paucity  of  ideality  in  his  mind,  that  can  scarcely 
be  called  a  fault :  a  fine  ear  for  music,  a  correct  eye  for 
colour  and  form,  left  him  the  quality  of  taste ;  and  who 
cares  for  imagination?  Who  does  not  think  it  a  rather 
dangerous,  senseless  attribute — akin  to  weakness — perhaps 
partaking  of  frenzy— a  disease  rather  than  a  gift  of  the 
mind? 

Probably  all  think  it  so,  but  those  who  possess — or  fancy 
they  possess — it.  To  hear  them  speak  you  would  believe 
that  their  hearts  would  be  cold  if  that  elixir  did  not  flow 
about  them  ;  that  their  eyes  would  be  dim  if  that  flame  did 
not  refine  their  vision  ;  that  they  would  be  lonely  if  this 
strange  companion  abandoned  them.  You  would  suppose 
that  it  imparted  some  glad  hope  to  spring,  some  fine  charm 
to  summer,  some  tranquil  joy  to  autumn,  some  consolation 
to  winter,  which  you  do  not  feel.  An  illusion,  of  course ; 
but  the  fanatics  cling  to  their  dream,  and  would  not  give  it 
for  gold. 

As  Mr.  Yorke  did  not  possess  poetic  imagination  him- 
self, he  considered  it  a  most  superfluous  quality  in  others. 
Painters  and  musicians  he  could  tolerate,  and  even  en- 
courage, because  he  could  relish  the  results  of  their  art ;  he 
could  see  the  charm  of  a  fine  picture  and  feel  the  pleasure  of 


ME.  YORKE  47 

good  music  ;  but  a  quiet  poet — whatever  force  struggled, 
whatever  fire  glowed,  in  his  breast — if  he  could  not  have 
played  the  man  in  the  counting-house,  or  the  tradesman  in 
the  Piece  Hall,  might  have  lived  despised,  and  died  scorned, 
under  the  eyes  of  Hiram  Yorke. 

And  as  there  are  many  Hiram  Yorkes  in  the  world,  it  is 
well  that  the  true  poet,  quiet  externally  though  he  may  be, 
has  often  a  truculent  spirit  under  his  placidity,  and  is  full  of 
shrewdness  in  his  meekness,  and  can  measure  the  whole 
stature  of  those  who  look  down  on  him,  and  correctly  ascer- 
tain the  weight  and  value  of  the  pursuits  they  disdain  him 
for  not  having  followed.  It  is  happy  that  he  can  have  his 
own  bliss,  his  own  society  with  his  great  friend  and  goddess, 
Nature,  quite  independent  of  those  who  find  little  pleasure 
in  him,  and  in  whom  he  finds  no  pleasure  at  all.  It  is  just, 
that  while  the  world  and  circumstances  often  turn  a  dark, 
cold  side  to  him — and  properly,  too,  because  he  first  turns  a 
dark,  cold,  careless  side  to  them — he  should  be  able  to  main- 
tain a  festal  brightness  and  cherishing  glow  in  his  bosom, 
which  makes  all  bright  and  genial  for  him  ;  while  strangers, 
perhaps,  deem  his  existence  a  Polar  winter  never  gladdened 
by  a  sun.  The  true  poet  is  not  one  whit  to  be  pitied  ;  and 
he  is  apt  to  laugh  in  his  sleeve,  when  any  misguided  sym- 
pathizer whines  over  his  wrongs.  Even  when  utilitarians 
sit  in  judgment  on  him,  and  pronounce  him  and  his  art 
useless,  he  hears  the  sentence  with  such  a  hard  derision,  such 
a  broad,  deep,  comprehensive,  and  merciless  contempt  of  the 
unhappy  Pharisees  who  pronounce  it,  that  he  is  rather  to  be 
chidden  than  condoled  with.  These,  however,  are  not  Mr. 
Yorke's  reflections  ;  and  it  is  with  Mr.  Yorke  we  have  at 
present  to  do. 

I  have  told  you  some  of  his  faults,  reader ;  as  to  his 
good  points,  he  was  one  of  the  most  honourable  and  capable 
men  in  Yorkshire  :  even  those  who  disliked  him  were  forced 
to  respect  him.  He  was  much  beloved  by  the  poor,  because 
he  was  thoroughly  kind  and  very  fatherly  to  them.  To  his 
workmen  he  was  con oiderate  and  cordial :  when  he  dismissed 


48  SHIBLEY 

them  from  an  occupation,  he  would  try  to  set  them  on  to 
something  else ;  or,  if  that  was  impossible,  help  them  to 
remove  with  their  families  to  a  district  where  work  might 
possibly  be  had.  It  must  also  be  remarked  that  if,  as  some- 
times chanced,  any  individual  amongst  his  '  hands  '  showed 
signs  of  insubordination,  Yorke — who,  like  many  who  abhor 
being  controlled,  knew  how  to  control  with  vigour — had  the 
secret  of  crushing  rebellion  in  the  germ,  of  eradicating  it  like 
a  bad  weed,  so  that  it  never  spread  or  developed  within  the 
sphere  of  his  authority.  Such  being  the  happy  state  of  his 
own  affairs,  he  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  speak  with  the 
utmost  severity  of  those  who  were  differently  situated ;  to 
ascribe  whatever  was  unpleasant  in  their  position  entirely  to 
their  own  fault,  to  sever  himself  from  the  masters,  and 
advocate  freely  the  cause  of  the  operatives. 

Mr.  Yorke's  family  was  the  first  and  oldest  in  the  district ; 
and  he,  though  not  the  wealthiest,  was  one  of  the  most 
influential  men.  His  education  had  been  good  :  in  his  youth, 
before  the  French  Kevolution,  he  had  travelled  on  the  con- 
tinent :  he  was  an  adept  in  the  French  and  Italian  languages. 
During  a  two  years'  sojourn  in  Italy,  he  had  collected  many 
good  paintings  and  tasteful  rarities,  with  which  his  residence 
was  now  adorned.  His  manners,  when  he  liked,  were  those 
of  a  finished  gentleman  of  the  old  school ;  his  conversation! 
when  he  was  disposed  to  please,  was  singularly  interesting 
and  original;  and  if  he  usually  expressed  himself  in  the 
Yorkshire  dialect,  it  was  because  he  chose  to  do  so,  preferring 
his  native  Doric  to  a  more  refined  vocabulary.  '  A  Yorkshire 
burr,'  he  affirmed,  '  was  as  much  better  than  a  cockney's  lisp, 
as  a  bull's  bellow  than  a  ration's  squeak.' 

Mr.  Yorke  knew  every  one,  and  was  known  by  every  one 
for  miles  round  ;  yet  his  intimate  acquaintances  were  very 
few.  Himself  thoroughly  original,  he  had  no  taste  for  what 
was  ordinary :  a  racy,  rough  character,  high  or  low,  ever 
found  acceptance  with  him  ;  a  refined,  insipid  personage, 
however  exalted  in  station,  was  his  aversion.  He  would 
spend  an  hour  any  time  in  talking  freely  with  a  shrewd 


ME.  YOEKE  49 

workman  of  his  own,  or  with  some  queer  sagacious  old  woman 
amongst  his  cottagers,  when  he  would  have  grudged  a  moment 
to  a  common-place  fine  gentleman,  or  to  the  most  fashionable 
and  elegant,  if  frivolous,  lady.  His  preferences  on  these 
points  he  carried  to  an  extreme,  forgetting  that  there  may 
be  amiable  and  even  admirable  characters  amongst  those  who 
cannot  be  original.  Yet  he  made  exceptions  to  his  own  rule  : 
there  was  a  certain  order  of  mind,  plain,  ingenuous,  neglect- 
ing refinement,  almost  devoid  of  intellectuality,  and  quite 
incapable  of  appreciating  what  was  intellectual  in  him  ;  but 
which,  at  the  same  time,  never  felt  disgust  at  his  rudeness, 
was  not  easily  wounded  by  his  sarcasm,  did  not  closely 
analyze  his  sayings,  doings,  or  opinions  ;  with  which  he 
was  peculiarly  at  ease,  and,  consequently,  which  he  peculiarly 
preferred.  He  was  lord  amongst  such  characters.  They, 
while  submitting  implicitly  to  his  influence,  never  acknow- 
ledged, because  they  never  reflected  on,  his  superiority  ;  they 
were  quite  tractable,  therefore,  without  running  the  smallest 
danger  of  being  servile ;  and  their  unthinking,  easy,  artless 
insensibility  was  as  acceptable,  because  as  convenient,  to  Mr. 
Yorke,  as  that  of  the  chair  he  sat  on,  or  of  the  floor  he  trod. 

It  will  have  been  observed  that  he  was  not  quite  uncordial 
with  Mr.  Moore ;  he  had  two  or  three  reasons  for  entertaining 
a  faint  partiality  to  that  gentleman.  It  may  sound  odd,  but 
the  first  of  these  was  that  Moore  spoke  English  with  a  foreign, 
and  French  with  a  perfectly  pure  accent ;  and  that  his  dark, 
thin  face,  with  its  fine  though  rather  wasted  lines,  had  a 
most  anti-British  and  anti-Yorkshire  look.  These  points 
seem  frivolous,  unlikely  to  influence  a  character  like  Yorke's  : 
but,  the  fact  is,  they  recalled  old,  perhaps  pleasurable  associa- 
tions :  they  brought  back  his  travelling,  his  youthful  days.  He 
had  seen,  amidst  Italian  cities  and  scenes,  faces  like  Moore's  ; 
he  had  heard,  in  Parisian  caf6s  and  theatres,  voices  like 
his  ;  he  was  young  then,  and  when  he  looked  at  and  listened 
to  the  alien,  he  seemed  young  again. 

Secondly,  he  had  known  Moore's  father,  and  had  had 
dealings  with  him  :  that  was  a  more  substantial,  though  by 


60  SHIBLEY 

no  means  a  more  agreeable  tie ;  for,  as  his  firm  had  been 
connected  with  Moore's  in  business,  it  had  also,  in  some 
measure,  been  implicated  in  its  losses. 

Thirdly,  he  had  found  Robert  himself  a  sharp  man  of  busi- 
ness. He  saw  reason  to  anticipate  that  he  would  in  the  end,  by 
one  means  or  another,  make  money  ;  and  he  respected  both 
his  resolution  and  acuteness  ;  perhaps,  also,  his  hardness. 
A  fourth  circumstance  which  drew  them  together  was  that 
of  Mr.  Yorke  being  one  of  the  guardians  of  the  minor  on 
whose  estate  Hollow's-mill  was  situated ;  consequently 
Moore,  in  the  course  of  his  alterations  and  improvements, 
had  frequent  occasion  to  consult  him. 

As  to  the  other  guest  now  present  in  Mr.  Yorke's  parlour, 
Mr.  Helstone,  between  him  and  his  host  there  existed  a 
double  antipathy :  the  antipathy  of  nature  and  that  of  circum- 
stances. The  free-thinker  hated  the  formalist ;  the  lover  of 
liberty  detested  the  disciplinarian  :  besides,  it  was  said  that 
in  former  years  they  had  been  rival  suitors  of  the  same  lady. 

Mr.  Yorke,  as  a  general  rule,  was,  when  young,  noted  for 
his  preference  of  sprightly  and  dashing  women :  a  showy 
shape  and  air,  a  lively  wit,  a  ready  tongue,  chiefly  seemed 
to  attract  him.  He  never,  however,  proposed  to  any  of  these 
brilliant  belles  whose  society  he  sought ;  and  all  at  once  he 
seriously  fell  in  love  with,  and  eagerly  wooed  a  girl  who 
presented  a  complete  contrast  to  those  he  had  hitherto 
noticed :  a  girl  with  the  face  of  a  Madonna ;  a  girl  of  living 
marble ;  stillness  personified.  No  matter  that,  when  he  spoke 
to  her,  she  only  answered  him  in  monosyllables ;  no  matter  that 
his  sighs  seemed  unheard,  that  his  glances  were  unreturned, 
that  she  never  responded  to  his  opinions,  rarely  smiled  at  his 
jests,  paid  him  no  respect  and  no  attention ;  no  matter  that 
she  seemed  the  opposite  of  everything  feminine  he  had  ever, 
in  his  whole  life  been  known  to  admire  :  for  him  Mary  Cave 
was  perfect,  because  somehow,  for  some  reason — no  doubt  he 
had  a  reason — he  loved  her. 

Mr.  Helstone,  at  that  time  curate  of  Briarfield,  loved 
Mary  too ;  or,  at  any  rate,  he  fancied  her.  Several  others 


MB.   YOKKE  51 

admired  her,  for  she  was  beautiful  as  a  monumental  angel ; 
but  the  clergyman  was  preferred  for  his  office'  sake :  that 
office  probably  investing  him  with  some  of  the  illusion 
necessary  to  allure  to  the  commission  of  matrimony,  and 
which  Miss  Cave  did  not  find  in  any  of  the  young  wool- 
staplers,  her  other  adorers.  Mr.  Helstone  neither  had,  nor 
professed  to  have,  Mr.  Yorke's  absorbing  passion  for  her : 
he  had  none  of  the  humble  reverence  which  seemed  to  subdue 
most  of  her  suitors ;  he  saw  her  more  as  she  really  was  than 
the  rest  did  ;  he  was,  consequently,  more  master  of  her  and 
himself.  She  accepted  him  at  the  first  offer,  and  they  were 
married. 

Nature  never  intended  Mr.  Helstone  to  make  a  very  good 
husband,  especially  to  a  quiet  wife.  He  thought,  so  long 
as  a  woman  was  silent,  nothing  ailed  her,  and  she  wanted 
nothing.  If  she  did  not  complain  of  solitude,  solitude, 
however  continued,  could  not  be  irksome  to  her.  If  she  did 
not  talk  and  put  herself  forward,  express  a  partiality  for  this, 
an  aversion  to  that,  she  had  no  partialities  or  aversions,  and 
it  was  useless  to  consult  her  tastes.  He  made  no  pretence 
of  comprehending  women,  or  comparing  them  with  men : 
they  were  a  different,  probably  a  very  inferior  order  of 
existence ;  a  wife  could  not  be  her  husband's  companion, 
much  less  his  confidant,  much  less  his  stay.  His  wife,  after 
a  year  or  two,  was  of  no  great  importance  to  him  in  any 
shape ;  and  when  she  one  day,  as  he  thought,  suddenly — 
for  he  had  scarcely  noticed  her  decline — but,  as  others 
thought,  gradually,  took  her  leave  of  him  and  of  life,  and 
there  was  only  a  still  beautiful-featured  mould  of  clay  left, 
cold  and  white,  in  the  conjugal  couch,  he  felt  his  bereave- 
ment—who shall  say  how  little  ?  Yet,  perhaps,  more  than 
he  seemed  to  feel  it ;  for  he  was  not  a  man  from  whom  grief 
easily  wrung  tears. 

His  dry-eyed  and  sober  mourning  scandalised  an  old 
housekeeper,  and  likewise  a  female  attendant,  who  had 
waited  upon  Mrs.  Helstone  in  her  sickness :  and  who, 
perhaps,  had  had  opportunities  of  learning  more  of  the 


52  SHIELEY 

deceased  lady's  nature,  of  her  capacity  for  feeling  and  loving, 
than  her  husband  knew :  they  gossiped  together  over  the 
corpse,  related  anecdotes,  with  embellishments  of  her  lingering 
decline,  and  its  real  or  supposed  cause ;  in  short,  they  worked 
each  other  up  to  some  indignation  against  the  austere  little 
man,  who  sat  examining  papers  in  an  adjoining  room,  un- 
conscious of  what  opprobrium  he  was  the  object. 

Mrs.  Helstone  was  hardly  under  the  sod  when  rumours 
began  to  be  rife  in  the  neighbourhood  that  she  had  died  of  a 
broken  heart ;  these  magnified  quickly  into  reports  of  hard 
usage,  and,  finally,  details  of  harsh  treatment  on  the  part  ot 
her  husband  :  reports  grossly  untrue,  but  not  the  less  eagerly 
received  on  that  account.  Mr.  Yorke  heard  them,  partly 
believed  them.  Already,  of  course,  he  had  no  friendly 
feeling  to  his  successful  rival ;  though  himself  a  married 
man  now,  and  united  to  a  woman  who  seemed  a  complete 
contrast  to  Mary  Cave  in  all  respects,  he  could  not  forget 
the  great  disappointment  of  his  life ;  and  when  he  heard 
that  what  would  have  been  so  precious  to  him  had  been 
neglected,  perhaps  abused  by  another,  he  conceived  for  that 
other  a  rooted  and  bitter  animosity. 

Of  the  nature  and  strength  of  this  animosity,  Mr. 
Helstone  was  but  half  aware :  he  neither  knew  how  much 
Yorke  had  loved  Mary  Cave,  what  he  had  felt  on  losing  her, 
nor  was  he  conscious  of  the  calumnies  concerning  his  treat- 
ment of  her,  familiar  to  every  ear  in  the  neighbourhood  but 
his  own.  He  believed  political  and  religious  differences 
alone  separated  him  and  Mr.  Yorke ;  had  he  known  how  the 
case  really  stood,  he  would  hardly  have  been  induced  by  any 
persuasion  to  cross  his  former  rival's  threshold. 

Mr.  Yorke  did  not  resume  his  lecture  of  Eobert  Moore ; 
the  conversation  ere  long  recommenced  in  a  more  general 
form,  though  still  in  a  somewhat  disputative  tone.  The  un- 
quiet state  of  the  country,  the  various  depredations  lately 
committed  on  mill-property  in  the  district,  supplied  abundant 
matter  for  disagreement ;  especially  as  each  of  the  three 


ME.  YOEKE  63 

gentlemen  present  differed  more  or  less  in  his  views  on  these 
subjects.  Mr.  Helstone  thought  the  masters  aggrieved,  the 
workpeople  unreasonable  :  he  condemned  sweepingly  the 
wide-spread  spirit  of  disaffection  against  constituted  authori- 
ties, the  growing  indisposition  to  bear  with  patience  evils 
he  regarded  as  inevitable :  the  cures  he  prescribed  were 
vigorous  government  interference,  strict  magisterial  vigilance; 
when  necessary,  prompt  military  coercion. 

Mr.  Yorke  wished  to  know  whether  this  interference, 
vigilance,  and  coercion  would  feed  those  who  were  hungry, 
give  work  to  those  who  wanted  work,  and  whom  no  man 
would  hire.  He  scouted  the  idea  of  inevitable  evils ;  he  said 
public  patience  was  a  camel,  on  whose  back  the  last  atom 
that  could  be  borne  had  already  been  laid,  and  that  resistance 
was  now  a  duty :  the  wide-spread  spirit  of  disaffection  against 
constituted  authorities  he  regarded  as  the  most  promising 
sign  of  the  times ;  the  masters,  he  allowed,  were  truly 
aggrieved,  but  their  main  grievances  had  been  heaped  on 
them  by  a  '  corrupt,  base,  and  bloody '  government  (these 
were  Mr.  Yorke's  epithets).  Madmen  like  Pitt,  demons  like 
Castlereagh,  mischievous  idiots  like  Perceval,  were  the 
tyrants,  the  curses  of  the  country,  the  destroyers  of  her  trade. 
It  was  their  infatuated  perseverance  in  an  unjustifiable,  a 
hopeless,  a  ruinous  war,  which  had  brought  the  nation  to  its 
present  pass.  It  was  their  monstrously  oppressive  taxation, 
it  was  the  infamous  '  Orders  in  Council,'  the  originators  of 
which  deserved  impeachment  and  the  scaffold,  if  ever  public 
men  did — that  hung  a  millstone  about  England's  neck. 

'  But  where  was  the  use  of  talking  ? '  he  demanded. 
'  What  chance  was  there  of  reason  being  heard  in  a  land 
that  was  king-ridden,  priest-ridden,  peer-ridden — where  a 
lunatic  was  the  nominal  monarch,  an  unprincipled  debauchee 
the  real  ruler ;  where  such  an  insult  to  common  sense  as 
hereditary  legislators  was  tolerated — where  such  a  humbug 
as  a  bench  of  bishops — such  an  arrogant  abuse  as  a  pampered, 
persecuting  established  Church  was  endured  and  venerated 
— where  a  standing  army  was  maintained,  and  a  host  of 


64  SHIKLEY' 

lazy  parsons  and  their  pauper  families  were  kept  on  the  fat 
of  the  land  ?  ' 

Mr.  Helstone,  rising  up  and  putting  on  his  shovel-hat, 
ohserved  in  reply,  '  That  in  the  course  of  his  life  he  had  met 
with  two  or  three  instances  where  sentiments  of  this  sort 
had  been  very  bravely  maintained  so  long  as  health,  strength, 
and  worldly  prosperity  had  been  the  allies  of  him  who  pro- 
fessed them  ;  but  thei'e  came  a  time,'  he  said,  '  to  all  men, 
"  when  the  keepers  of  the  house  should  tremble  ;  when  they 
should  be  afraid  of  that  which  is  high,  and  fear  should  be  in 
the  way ;  "  and  that  time  was  the  test  of  the  advocate  of 
anarchy  and  rebellion,  the  enemy  of  religion  and  order.  Ere 
now,'  he  affirmed,  '  he  had  been  called  upon  to  read  those 
prayers  our  Church  has  provided  for  the  sick,  by  the  miserable 
dying-bed  of  one  of  her  most  rancorous  foes ;  he  had  seen 
such  a  one  stricken  with  remorse,  solicitous  to  discover  a 
place  for  repentance,  and  unable  to  find  any,  though  he 
sought  it  carefully  with  tears.  He  must  forewarn  Mr.  Yorke, 
that  blasphemy  against  God  and  the  king  was  a  deadly  sin, 
and  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  "  judgment  to  come." ' 

Mr.  Yorke  '  believed  fully  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
judgment  to  come.  If  it  were  otherwise,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  imagine  how  all  the  scoundrels  who  seemed  triumphant 
in  this  world,  who  broke  innocent  hearts  with  impunity, 
abused  unmerited  privileges,  were  a  scandal  to  honourable 
callings,  took  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  poor,  brow- 
beat the  humble,  and  truckled  meanly  to  the  rich  and  proud 
— were  to  be  properly  paid  off,  in  such  coin  as  they  had 
earned.  But,'  he  added, '  whenever  he  got  low-spirited  about 
such  like  goings-on,  and  their  seeming  success  in  this  mucky 
lump  of  a  planet,  he  just  reached  down  t'  owd  book  '  (pointing 
to  a  great  Bible  in  the  bookcase),  '  opened  it  like  at  a  chance, 
and  he  was  sure  to  light  of  a  verse  blazing  wi'  a  blue  brim- 
stone low  that  set  all  straight.  He  knew,'  he  said,  '  where 
some  folk  war  bound  for,  just  as  weel  as  if  an  angel  wi'  great 
white  wings  had  come  in  ower  t'  door-stone  and  told  him.' 

'  Sir,'  said  Mr.  Helstone,  collecting  all  his  dignity,  '  Sir — 


ME.  YOEKE  65 

the  great  knowledge  of  man  is  to  know  himself,  and  the 
bourne  whither  his  own  steps  tend.' 

'  Ay,  ay  !  you'll  recollect,  Mr.  Helstone,  that  Ignorance 
was  carried  away  from  the  very  gates  of  heaven,  home 
through  the  air,  and  thrust  in  at  a  door  in  the  side  of  the  hill 
which  led  down  to  hell.' 

1  Nor  have  I  forgotten,  Mr.  Yorke,  that  Vain-Confidence, 
not  seeing  the  way  before  him,  fell  into  a  deep  pit,  which 
was  on  purpose  there  made  by  the  prince  of  the  grounds,  to 
catch  vain-glorious  fools  withal,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces 
with  his  fall.' 

'  Now,'  interposed  Mr.  Moore,  who  had  hitherto  sat  a 
silent  but  amused  spectator  of  this  wordy  combat,  and  whose 
indifference  to  the  party  politics  of  the  day,  as  well  as  to  the 
gossip  of  the  neighbourhood,  made  him  an  impartial,  if 
apathetic,  judge  of  the  merits  of  such  an  encounter — '  you 
have  both  sufficiently  black-balled  each  other,  and  proved 
how  cordially  you  detest  each  other,  and  how  wicked  you 
think  each  other.  For  my  part,  my  hate  is  still  running  in 
such  a  strong  current  against  the  fellows  who  have  broken 
my  frames,  that  I  have  none  to  spare  for  my  private  ac- 
quaintance, and  still  less  for  such  a  vague  thing  as  a  sect  or 
a  government :  but  really,  gentlemen,  you  both  seem  very 
bad,  by  your  own  showing ;  worse  than  ever  I  suspected  you 
to  be.  I  dare  not  stay  all  night  with  a  rebel  and  blasphemer, 
like  you,  Yorke  ;  and  I  hardly  dare  ride  home  with  a  cruel 
and  tyrannical  ecclesiastic,  like  Mr.  Helstone.' 

'  I  am  going,  however,  Mr.  Moore,'  said  the  Eector  sternly  : 
'  come  with  me  or  not,  as  you  please.' 

'  Nay,  he  shall  not  have  the  choice — he  shall  go  with 
you,'  responded  Yorke.  '  It's  midnight,  and  past ;  and  I'll 
have  nob'dy  staying  up  i'  my  house  any  longer.  Ye  mun 
all  go.' 

He  rang  the  bell. 

1  Deb,'  said  he  to  the  servant  who  answered  it,  '  clear 
them  folk  out  o'  t'  kitchen,  and  lock  t'  doors,  and  be  off  to 
bed.  Here  is  your  way,  gentlemen,'  he  continued  to  his 


56  SHIELEY 

guests ;  and,  lighting  them  through  the  passage,  he  fairly 
put  them  out  at  his  front-door. 

They  met  their  party  hurrying  out  pell-mell  by  the  back 
way ;  their  horses  stood  at  the  gate ;  they  mounted,  and 
rode  off — Moore  laughing  at  their  abrupt  dismissal,  Helstone 
deeply  indignant  thereat. 


CHAPTER  V 
HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE 

MOORE'S  good  spirits  were  still  with  him  when  he  rose  next 
morning.  He  and  Joe  Scott  had  both  spent  the  night  in  the 
mill,  availing  themselves  of  certain  sleeping  accommodations 
producible  from  recesses  in  the  front  and  back  counting- 
houses  :  the  master,  always  an  early  riser,  was  up  somewhat 
sooner  even  than  usual :  he  awoke  his  man  by  singing  a 
French  song  as  he  made  his  toilet. 

'  Ye're  not  custen  dahm,  then,  maister  ?  '  cried  Joe. 

'  Not  a  stiver,  mon  gar<jon— which  moans,  my  lad — get 
up,  and  we'll  take  a  turn  through  the  mill  before  the  hands 
come  in,  and  I'll  explain  my  future  plans.  We'll  have  the 
machinery  yet,  Joseph  ;  you  never  heard  of  Bruce,  perhaps  ?  ' 

'  And  th'  arrand  (spider)  ?  Yes,  but  I  hev  :  I've  read 
th'  history  o'  Scotland,  and  happen  knaw  as  mich  on't  as  ye  ; 
and  I  understand  ye  to  mean  to  say  ye'll  persevere.' 

'  I  do.' 

'  Is  there  mony  o'  your  mak'  i'  your  country  ?  '  inquired 
Joe,  as  he  folded  up  his  temporary  bed,  and  put  it  away. 

'  In  my  country  !     Which  is  my  country  ?  ' 

'  Why,  France— isn't  it  ?  ' 

'  Not  it,  indeed  !  The  circumstance  of  the  French  having 
seized  Antwerp,  where  I  was  born,  docs  not  make  me  a 
Frenchman.' 

'  Holland,  then  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not  a  Dutchman  :  now  you  are  confounding 
Antwerp  with  Amsterdam.' 

'  Flanders  ?  ' 


58  SHIELEY 

'  I  scorn  the  insinuation,  Joe  !  I,  a  Flamand  !  Have  I 
a  Flemish  face  ? — the  clumsy  nose  standing  out — the  mean 
forehead  falling  back — the  pale  blue  eyes  "  a  fleur  de  tete  "  ? 
Am  I  all  body  and  no  legs,  like  a  Flamand  ?  But  you  don't 
know  what  they  are  like — those  Netherlanders.  Joe,  I'm  an 
Anversois  :  my  mother  was  an  Anversoise,  though  she  came 
of  French  lineage,  which  is  the  reason  I  speak  French.' 

'  But  your  father  war  Yorkshire,  which  maks  ye  a  bit 
Yorkshire  too ;  and  onybody  may  see  ye're  akin  to  us,  ye're 
so  keen  o'  making  brass,  and  getting  forrards." 

'  Joe,  you're  an  impudent  dog  ;  but  I've  always  been 
accustomed  to  a  boorish  sort  of  insolence  from  my  youth 
up  :  the  "  classe  ouvriere  " — that  is,  the  working  people  in 
Belgium — bear  themselves  brutally  towards  their  employers  ; 
and  by  brutally,  Joe,  I  mean  brutalcment — which,  perhaps, 
when  properly  translated,  should  be  roughly' 

1  We  allus  speak  our  minds  i'  this  country ;  and  them 
young  parsons  and  grand  folk  fro'  London  is  shocked  at  wcr 
"  incivility,"  and  we  like  weel  enough  to  gi'e  'em  summat  to 
be  shocked  at,  'cause  it's  sport  to  us  to  watch  'em  turn  up 
the  whites  o'  their  een,  and  spreed  out  their  bits  o'  hands, 
like  as  they're  flayed  \vi*  bogards,  and  then  to  hear  'em  say, 
nipping  off  their  words  short  like — "  Dear  !  dear !  Whet 
seveges  !  How  very  corse  !  " 

'  You  arc  savages,  Joe ;  you  don't  suppose  you're  civilized, 
do  you  ?  ' 

'  Middling,  middling,  maister.  I  reckon  'at  us  manu- 
facturing lads  i'  th'  north  is  a  deal  more  intelligent,  and 
knaws  a  deal  more  nor  th'  farming  folk  i'  th'  south.  Trade 
sharpens  wer  wits ;  and  them  that's  mechanics,  like  me,  is 
forced  to  think.  Ye  know,  what  wi"  looking  after  machinery 
and  sich  like,  I've  getten  into  that  way  that  when  I  see  an 
effect,  I  look  straight  out  for  a  cause,  and  I  oft  lig  hold  on't 
to  purpose;  and  then  I  like  reading,  and  I'm  curious  to  knaw 
what  them  that  reckons  to  govern  us  aims  to  do  for  us  and 
wi'  us  :  and  there's  many  'cuter  nor  me  ;  there's  many  a  one 
amang  them  gi'easy  chaps  'at  smells  o'  oil,  and  amang  them 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  59 

dyers  wi'  blue  and  black  skins,  that  has  a  long  head,  and  that 
can  tell  what  a  fooil  of  a  law  is,  as  well  as  ye  or  old  Yorke, 
and  a  deal  better  nor  soft  uns  like  Christopher  Sykes  o' 
Whinbury,  and  greet  hectoring  nowts  like  yond'  Irish  Peter, 
Helstone's  curate.' 

'  You  think  yourself  a  clever  fellow,  I  know,  Scott.' 

'  Ay  !  I'm  fairish ;  I  can  tell  cheese  fro'  chalk,  and  I'm 
varry  weel  aware  that  I've  improved  sich  opportunities  as  I 
have  had,  a  deal  better  nor  some  'at  reckons  to  be  aboon  me ; 
but  there's  thousands  i'  Yorkshire  that's  as  good  as  me,  and 
a  two-three  that's  better.' 

'You're  a  great  man— you're  a  sublime  fellow:  but 
you're  a  prig,  a  conceited  noodle  with  it  all,  Joe  !  You  need 
not  to  think  that  because  you've  picked  up  a  little  knowledge 
of  practical  mathematics,  and  because  you  have  found  some 
scantling  of  the  elements  of  chemistry  at  the  bottom  of  a 
dying  vat,  that  therefore  you're  a  neglected  man  of  science ; 
and  you  need  not  to  suppose  that  because  the  course  of  trade 
does  not  always  run  smooth,  and  you,  and  such  as  you,  are 
sometimes  short  of  work  and  of  bread,  that  therefore  your 
class  are  martyrs,  and  that  the  whole  form  of  government 
under  which  you  live  is  wrong.  And,  moreover,  you  need 
not  for  a  moment  to  insinuate  that  the  virtues  have  taken 
refuge  in  cottages  and  wholly  abandoned  slated  houses.  Let 
me  tell  you,  I  particularly  abominate  that  sort  of  trash, 
because  I  know  so  well  that  human  nature  is  human  nature 
everywhere,  whether  under  tile  or  thatch,  and  that  in  every 
specimen  of  human  nature  that  breathes,  vice  and  virtue  are 
ever  found  blended,  in  smaller  or  greater  proportions,  and 
that  the  proportion  is  not  determined  by  station.  I  have 
seen  villains  who  were  rich,  and  I  have  seen  villains  who 
were  poor,  and  I  have  seen  villains  who  were  neither  rich 
nor  poor,  but  who  had  realised  Agar's  wish,  and  lived  in  fair 
and  modest  competency.  The  clock  is  going  to  strike  six  : 
away  with  you,  Joe,  and  ring  the  mill  bell.' 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  the  month  of  February ;  by  six 
o'clock,  therefore,  dawn  was  just  beginning  to  steal  on  night, 


60  SHIRLEY 

to  penetrate  with  a  pale  ray  its  brown  obscurity,  and  give  a 
demi-translucence  to  its  opaque  shadows.  Pale  enough  that 
ray  was  on  this  particular  morning ;  no  colour  tinged  the 
east,  no  flush  warmed  it.  To  see  what  a  heavy  lid  day  slowly 
lifted,  what  a  wan  glance  she  flung  along  the  hills,  you  would 
have  thought  the  sun's  fire  quenched  in  last  night's  floods. 
The  breath  of  this  morning  was  chill  as  its  aspect ;  a  raw 
wind  stirred  the  mass  of  night-cloud,  and  showed,  as  it  slowly 
rose — leaving  a  colourless,  silver-gleaming  ring  all  round  the 
horizon— not  blue  sky,  but  a  stratum  of  paler  vapour  beyond. 
It  had  ceased  to  rain,  but  the  earth  was  sodden,  and  the  pools 
and  rivulets  were  full. 

The  mill-windows  were  alight,  the  bell  still  rang  loud, 
and  now  the  little  children  came  running  in,  in  too  great  a 
hurry,  let  us  hope,  to  feel  very  much  nipped  by  the  inclement 
air ;  and,  indeed,  by  contrast,  perhaps  the  morning  appeared 
rather  favourable  to  them  than  otherwise  ;  for  they  had  often 
come  to  their  work  that  winter  through  snow-storms,  through 
heavy  rain,  through  hard  frost. 

Mr.  Moore  stood  at  the  entrance  to  watch  them  pass  :  he 
counted  them  as  they  went  by ;  to  those  who  came  rather 
late  he  said  a  word  of  reprimand,  which  was  a  little  more 
sharply  repeated  by  Joe  Scott  when  the  lingerers  reached  the 
work-rooms.  Neither  master  nor  overlooker  spoke  savagely ; 
they  were  not  savage  men  either  of  them,  though  it  appeared 
both  were  rigid,  for  they  fined  a  delinquent  who  came  con- 
siderably too  late  :  Mr.  Moore  made  him  pay  his  penny  down 
ere  he  entered,  and  informed  him  that  the  next  repetition  of 
the  fault  would  cost  him  twopence. 

Rules,  no  doubt,  are  necessary  in  such  cases,  and  coarse 
and  cruel  masters  will  make  coarse  and  cruel  rules,  which,  at 
the  time  we  treat  of  at  least,  they  used  sometimes  to  enforce 
tyrannically  :  but,  though  I  describe  imperfect  characters 
(every  character  in  this  book  will  be  found  to  be  more  or  less 
imperfect,  my  pen  refusing  to  draw  anything  in  the  model 
line,)  I  have  not  undertaken  to  handle  degraded  or  utte:ly 
infamous  ones.  Child-torturers,  slave  masters  and  drivers, 


HOLLOW'S   COTTAGE  61 

I  consign  to  the  hands  of  jailers ;  the  novelist  may  be  excused 
from  sullying  his  page  with  the  record  of  their  deeds. 

Instead,  then,  of  harrowing  up  my  reader's  soul,  and 
delighting  his  organ  of  Wonder  with  effective  descriptions 
of  stripes  and  scourgings,  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  inform 
him  that  neither  Mr.  Moore  nor  his  overlooker  ever  struck  a 
child  in  their  mill.  Joe  had,  indeed,  once  very  severely 
flogged  a  son  of  his  own  for  telling  a  lie  and  persisting  in 
it ;  but,  like  his  employer,  he  was  too  phlegmatic,  too  calm, 
as  well  as  too  reasonable  a  man,  to  make  corporal  chastise- 
ment other  than  the  exception  to  his  treatment  of  the 
young. 

Mr.  Moore  haunted  his  mill,  his  mill-yard,  his  dye-house, 
and  his  warehouse,  till  the  sickly  dawn  strengthened  into 
day.  The  sun  even  rose, — at  least  a  white  disk,  clear, 
tintless,  and  almost  chill-looking  as  ice, — peeped  over  the 
dark  crest  of  a  hill,  changed  to  silver  the  livid  edge  of  the 
cloud  above  it,  and  looked  solemnly  down  the  whole  length 
of  the  den,  or  narrow  dale,  to  whose  strait  bounds  we  are  at 
present  limited.  It  was  eight  o'clock  ;  the  mill  lights  were 
all  extinguished ;  the  signal  was  given  for  breakfast ;  the 
children,  released  for  half  an  hour  from  toil,  betook  them- 
selves to  the  little  tin  cans  which  held  their  coffee,  and  to 
the  small  baskets  which  contained  their  allowance  of  bread. 
Let  us  hope  they  had  enough  to  eat ;  it  would  be  a  pity  were 
it  otherwise* 

And  now,  at  last,  Mr.  Moore  quitted  the  mill-yard,  and 
bent  his  steps  to  his  dwelling-house.  It  was  only  a  short 
distance  from  the  factory,  but  the  hedge  and  high  bank  on 
each  side  of  the  lane  which  conducted  to  it  seemed  to  give 
it  something  of  the  appearance  and  feeling  of  seclusion.  It 
was  a  small  white-washed  place,  with  a  green  porch  over  the 
door  ;  scanty  brown  stalks  showed  in  the  garden  soil  near 
this  porch,  and  likewise  beneath  the  windows, — stalks 
budless  and  flowerless  now,  but  giving  dim  prediction  of 
trained  and  blooming  creepers  for  summer  days.  A  grass 
plat  and  borders  fronted  the  cottage ;  the  borders  presented 


62  SHtRLEt 

only  black  mould  yet,  except  where,  in  sheltered  nooks,  the 
first  shoots  of  snowdrop  or  crocus  peeped,  green  as  emerald, 
from  the  earth.  The  spring  was  late ;  it  had  been  a  severe 
and  prolonged  winter ;  the  last  deep  snow  had  but  just  dis- 
appeared before  yesterday's  rains ;  on  the  hills,  indeed,  white 
remnants  of  it  yet  gleamed,  flecking  the  hollows  and  crown- 
ing the  peaks :  the  lawn  was  not  verdant,  but  bleached,  as 
was  the  grass  on  the  bank,  and  under  the  hedge  in  the  lane. 
Three  trees,  gracefully  grouped,  rose  beside  the  cottage ;  they 
were  not  lofty,  but  having  no  rivals  near,  they  looked  well 
and  imposing  where  they  grew.  Such  was  Mr.  Moore's 
home ;  a  snug  nest  for  content  and  contemplation,  but  one 
within  which  the  wings  of  action  and  ambition  could  not 
long  lie  folded. 

Its  air  of  modest  comfort  seemed  to  possess  no  particular 
attraction  for  its  owner;  instead  of  entering  the  house  at 
once,  he  fetched  a  spade  from  a  little  shed,  and  began  to 
work  in  the  garden.  For  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  dug 
on  uninterrupted  :  at  length,  however,  a  window  opened,  and 
a  female  voice  called  to  him  :  — '  Eh,  bien  !  Tu  ne  dejeunes 
pas  ce  matin  ? ' 

The  answer,  and  the  rest  of  the  conversation,  was  in 
French ;  but,  as  this  is  an  English  book,  I  shall  translate  it 
into  English. 

'  Is  breakfast  ready,  Hortense  ? ' 
'  Certainly  ;  it  has  been  ready  half-an-hour.' 
1  Then  I  am  ready,  too :  I  have  a  canine  hunger.' 
He  threw  down  his  spade  and  entered  the  house :  the 
narrow  passage  conducted  him  to  a  small  parlour,  where  a 
breakfast  of  coffee  and  bread  and  butter,  with  the  somewhat 
un-English  accompaniment  of  stewed  pears,  was  spread  on 
the  table.     Over  these  viands  presided  the  lady  who  had 
spoken  from  the  window.     I  must  describe  her  before  I  go 
any  further. 

She  seemed  a  little  older  than  Mr.  Moore,  perhaps  she 
was  thirty-five,  tall,  and  proportionately  stout ;  she  had  very 
black  hair,  for  the  present  twisted  up  in  curl-papers  ;  a  high 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  63 

colour  in  her  cheeks,  a  small  nose,  a  pair  of  little  black  eyes. 
The  lower  part  of  her  face  was  large  in  proportion  to  the 
upper ;  her  forehead  was  small  and  rather  corrugated ;  she  had 
a  fretful,  though  not  an  ill-natured  expression  of  countenance  ; 
there  was  something  in  her  whole  appearance  one  felt  inclined 
to  be  half  provoked  with,  and  half  amused  at.  The  strangest 
point  was  her  dress  :  a  stuff  petticoat  and  a  striped  cotton 
camisole.  The  petticoat  was  short,  displaying  well  a  pair 
of  feet  and  ankles  which  left  much  to  be  desired  in  the 
article  of  symmetry. 

You  will  think  I  have  depicted  a  remarkable  slattern, 
reader ; — not  at  all.  Hortense  Moore  (she  was  Mr.  Moore's 
sister)  was  a  very  orderly,  economical  person  ;  the  petticoat, 
camisole,  and  curl-papers  were  her  morning  costume,  in  which, 
of  forenoons,  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  '  go  .her 
household  ways  '  in  her  own  country.  She  did  not  choose 
to  adopt  English  fashions  because  she  was  obliged  to  live 
in  England ;  she  adhered  to  her  old  Belgian  modes,  quite 
satisfied  that  there  was  a  merit  in  so  doing. 

Mademoiselle  had  an  excellent  opinion  of  herself,  an 
opinion  not  wholly  undeserved,  for  she  possessed  some  good 
and  sterling  qualities ;  but  she  rather  over-estimated  the 
kind  and  degree  of  these  qualities,  and  quite  left  out  of  the 
account  sundry  little  defects  which  accompanied  them.  You 
could  never  have  persuaded  her  that  she  was  a  prejudiced 
and  narrow-minded  person,  that  she  was  too  susceptible  on 
the  subject  of  her  own  dignity  and  importance,  and  too  apt 
to  take  offence  about  trifles  ;  yet  all  this  was  true.  How- 
ever, where  her  claims  to  distinction  were  not  opposed,  and 
where  her  prejudices  were  not  offended,  she  could  be  kind 
and  friendly  enough.  To  her  two  brothers  (for  there  was 
another  G6rard  Moore  besides  Kobert)  she  was  very  much 
attached.  As  the  sole  remaining  representatives  of  their 
decayed  family,  the  persons  of  both  were  almost  sacred  in  her 
eyes  :  of  Louis,  however,  she  knew  less  than  of  Robert ;  he 
had  been  sent  to  England  when  a  mere  boy,  and  had 
received  his  education  at  an  English  school.  His  education 


64  SHIRLEY 

not  being  such  as  to  adapt  him  for  trade,  pei'haps,  too,  his 
natural  bent  not  inclining  him  to  mercantile  pursuits,  he 
had,  when  the  blight  of  hereditary  prospects  rendered  it 
necessary  for  him  to  push  his  own  fortune,  adopted  the  very 
arduous  and  very  modest  career  of  a  teacher  ;  he  had  been 
usher  in  a  school,  and  was  said  now  to  be  tutor  in  a  private 
family.  Hortense,  when  she  mentioned  Louis,  described 
him  as  having  what  she  called  '  desmoyens,'  but  as  being  too 
backward  and  quiet :  her  praise  of  Robert  was  in  a  different 
strain,  less  qualified ;  she  was  very  proud  of  him ;  she 
regarded  him  as  the  greatest  man  in  Europe ;  all  he  said 
and  did  was  remarkable  in  her  eyes,  and  she  expected  others 
to  behold  him  from  the  same  point  of  view ;  nothing  could 
be  more  irrational,  monstrous,  and  infamous,  than  opposition 
from  any  quarter  to  Robert,  unless  it  were  opposition  to 
herself. 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  said  Robert  was  seated  at 
the  breakfast  table,  and  she  had  helped  him  to  a  portion  of 
stewed  pears,  and  cut  him  a  good-sized  Belgian  tartine,  she 
began  to  pour  out  a  flood  of  amazement  and  horror  at  the 
transaction  of  last  night,  the  destruction  of  the  frames. 

'  Quelle  id6e  !  to  destroy  them.  Quelle  action  honteuse  ! 
On  voyait  bien  que  les  ouvriers  de  ce  pays  6taient  a  la  fois 
betes  et  mediants.  C'6  tait  absolument  comme  les  domestiques 
Anglais,  les  servantes  surtout :  rien  d'insupportable  comme 
cette  Sara,  par  exemple ! ' 

'  She  looks  clean  and  industrious/  Mr.  Moore  remarked. 

1  Looks  !  I  don't  know  how  she  looks  ;  and  I  do  not  say 
that  she  is  altogether  dirty  or  idle  :  mais  elle  est  d'une 
insolence  !  She  disputed  with  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
yesterday  about  the  cooking  of  the  beef ;  she  said  I  boiled  it 
to  rags,  that  English  people  would  never  be  able  to  eat  such 
a  dish  as  our  bouilli,  that  the  bouillon  \vas  no  better  than 
greasy  warm  water,  and  as  to  the  choucroute,  she  affirms 
she  cannot  touch  it !  That  barrel  we  have  in  the  cellar — 
delightfully  prepared  by  my  own  hands — she  termed  a  tub 
of  hog-wash,  which  means  food  for  pigs.  I  am  harassed  with 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  65 

the  girl,  and  yet  I  cannot  part  with  her  lest  I  should  get  a 
worse.  You  are  in  the  same  position  with  your  workmen, — 
pauvre  cher  frere ! ' 

'I  am  afraid  you  are  not  very  happy  in  England, 
Hortense.' 

1  It  is  my  duty  to  be  happy  where  you  are,  brother  ;  but 
otherwise,  there  are  certainly  a  thousand  things  which 
make  me  regret  our  native  town.  All  the  world  here 
appears  to  me  ill-bred  (mal-eleve").  I  find  my  habits  con- 
sidered ridiculous  :  ii  a  girl  out  of  your  mill  chances  to  come 
into  the  kitchen  and  find  me  in  my  jupon  and  camisole 
preparing  dinner  (for  you  know  I  cannot  trust  Sarah  to  cook 
a  single  dish),  she  sneers.  If  I  accept  an  invitation  out  to 
tea,  which  I  have  done  once  or  twice,  I  perceive  I  am  put 
quite  into  the  background ;  I  have  not  that  attention  paid 
me  which  decidedly  is  my  due.  Of  what  an  excellent  family 
are  the  G6rards,  as  we  know,  and  the  Moores  also  !  They 
have  a  right  to  claim  a  certain  respect,  and  to  feel  wounded 
when  it  is  withheld  from  them.  In  Antwerp,  I  was  always 
treated  with  distinction ;  here,  one  would  think  that  when 
I  open  my  lips  in  company,  I  speak  English  with  a  ridiculous 
accent,  whereas  I  am  quite  assured  that  I  pronounce  it 
perfectly.' 

'  Hortense,  in  Antwerp  we  were  known  rich  ;  in  England 
we  were  never  known  but  poor.' 

'  Precisely,  and  thus  mercenary  are  mankind.  Again, 
dear  brother,  last  Sunday,  if  you  recollect,  was  very  wet ; 
accordingly,  I  went  to  church  in  my  neat  black  sabots, 
objects  one  would  not  indeed  wear  in  a  fashionable  city ; 
but  which  in  the  country  I  have  ever  been  accustomed  to 
use  for  walking  in  dirty  roads.  Believe  me,  as  I  paced  up 
the  aisle,  composed  and  tranquil,  as  I  am  always,  four  ladies, 
and  as  many  gentlemen,  laughed  and  hid  their  faces  behind 
their  prayer-books.' 

'  Well,  well !  don't  put  on  the  sabots  again.  I  told  you 
before  I  thought  they  were  not  quite  the  thing  for  this 
country.' 


66  SHIKLEY 

'  But,  brother,  they  are  not  common  sabots,  such  as  the 
peasantry  wear.  I  tell  you,  they  are  sabots  noirs,  tres 
propres,  tres  convenables.  At  Mons  and  Leuze—  cities  not 
very  far  removed  from  the  elegant  capital  of  Brussels — it  is 
very  seldom  that  the  respectable  people  wear  anything  else 
for  walking  in  winter.  Let  any  one  try  to  wade  the  mud  of 
the  Flemish  chauss6es  in  a  pair  of  Paris  brodequins,  on  m'en 
dirait  des  nouvelles  ! ' 

'  Never  mind  Mons  and  Leuze,  and  the  Flemish 
chaussees ;  do  at  Eome  as  the  Romans  do  ;  and  as  to  the 
camisole  and  jupon,  I  am  not  quite  sure  about  them  either. 
I  never  see  an  English  lady  dressed  in  such  garments.  Ask 
Caroline  Helstone.' 

'  Caroline  !  /  ask  Caroline  ?  /  consult  her  about  my 
dress  ?  It  is  she  who  on  all  points  should  consult  me  ;  she 
is  a  child.' 

'  She  is  eighteen,  or  at  the  least  seventeen  ;  old  enough 
to  know  all  about  gowns,  petticoats,  and  chaussures.' 

1  Do  not  spoil  Caroline,  I  entreat  you,  brother ;  do  not 
make  her  of  more  consequence  than  she  ought  to  be. 
At  present  she  is  modest  and  unassuming :  let  us  keep 
her  so.' 

'  With  all  my  heart.     Is  she  coming  this  morning  ?  ' 

'  She  will  come  at  ten,  as  usual,  to  take  her  French 
lesson.' 

'  You  don't  find  that  she  sneers  at  you,  do  you  ? ' 

'  She  does  not,  she  appreciates  me  better  than  any  one 
else  here ;  but  then  she  has  more  intimate  opportunities  of 
knowing  me ;  she  sees  that  I  have  education,  intelligence, 
manner,  principles  ;  all,  in  short,  which  belongs  to  a  person 
well  born  and  well  bred.' 

'  Are  you  at  all  fond  of  her  ? ' 

'  For  fond — I  cannot  say  :  I  am  not  one  who  is  prone  to 
take  violent  fancies,  and,  consequently,  my  friendship  is  the 
more  to  be  depended  on.  I  have  a  regard  for  her  as  my 
relative  ;  her  position  also  inspires  interest,  and  her  conduct 
as  my  pupil  lias  hitherto  been  such  as  rather  to  enhance 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  67 

than  diminish  the  attachment  that  springs  from  other 
causes.' 

'  She  behaves  pretty  well  at  lessons  ? ' 

'  To  me  she  behaves  very  well ;  but  you  are  conscious, 
brother,  that  I  have  a  manner  calculated  to  repel  over- 
familiarity,  to  win  esteem,  and  to  command  respect.  Yet, 
possessed  of  penetration,  I  perceive  clearly  that  Caroline  is 
not  perfect ;  that  there  is  much  to  be  desired  in  her.' 

1  Give  me  a  last  cup  of  coffee,  and  while  I  am  drinking  it 
amuse  me  with  an  account  of  her  faults.' 

'  Dear  brother,  I  am  happy  to  see  you  eat  your  breakfast 
with  relish,  after  the  fatiguing  night  you  have  passed. 
Caroline,  then,  is  defective  ;  but,  with  my  forming  hand  arid 
almost  motherly  care,  she  may  improve.  There  is  about  her 
an  occasional  something — a  reserve,  I  think — which  I  do 
not  quite  like,  because  it  is  not  sufficiently  girlish  and  sub- 
missive ;  and  there  are  glimpses  of  an  unsettled  hurry  in  her 
nature,  which  put  me  out.  Yet  she  is  usually  most  tranquil, 
too  dejected  and  thoughtful  indeed  sometimes.  In  time,  I 
doubt  not,  I  shall  make  her  uniformly  sedate  and  decorous, 
without  being  unaccountably  pensive.  I  ever  disapprove 
what  is  not  intelligible.' 

'  I  don't  understand  your  account  in  the  least ;  what  do 
you  mean  by  "  unsettled  hurries,"  for  instance  ?  ' 

'  An  example  will,  perhaps,  be  the  most  satisfactory 
explanation.  I  sometimes,  you  are  aware,  make  her  read 
French  poetry  by  way  of  practice  in  pronunciation.  She 
has,  in  the  course  of  her  lessons,  gone  through  much  cf 
Corneille  and  Racine,  in  a  very  steady,  sober  spirit,  such  as 
I  approve.  Occasionally  she  showed,  indeed,  a  degree  of 
languor  in  the  perusal  of  those  esteemed  authors,  partaking 
rather  of  apathy  than  sobriety,  and  apathy  is  what  I  cannot 
tolerate  in  those  who  have  the  benefit  of  my  instructions  ; 
besides,  one  should  not  be  apathetic  in  studying  standard 
works.  The  other  day  I  put  into  her  hands  a  volume  of 
short  fugitive  pieces.  I  sent  her  to  the  window  to  learn  one 
by  heart,  and  when  I  looked  up  I  saw  her  turning  the  leaves 


68  SHIRLEY 

over  impatiently,  and  curling  her  lip,  absolutely  with  scorn 
as  she  surveyed  the  little  poems  cursorily.  I  chid  her. 
'  Ma  cousine,'  said  she,  '  tout  cela  m'ennuie  a  la  mort.'  I 
told  her  this  was  improper  language. — '  Dieu ! '  she  ex- 
claimed. '  II  n'y  a  done  pas  deux  lignes  de  po^sie  dans 
toute  la  litte'rature  fra^aise  ? '  I  inquired  what  she  meant. 
She  begged  my  pardon  with  proper  submission.  Erelong 
she  was  still ;  I  saw  her  smiling  to  herself  over  the  book ; 
she  began  to  learn  assiduously.  In  half  an  hour  she  came 
and  stood  before  me,  presented  the  volume,  folded  her  hands, 
as  I  always  require  her  to  do,  and  commenced  the  repetition 
of  that  short  thing  by  Ch6nier,  "  La  Jeune  Captive."  If  you 
had  heard  the  manner  in  which  she  went  through  this,  and 
in  which  she  uttered  a  few  incoherent  comments  when  she 
had  done,  you  would  have  known  what  I  meant  by  the 
phrase  "unsettled  hurry."  One  would  have  thought  Che'nier 
was  more  moving  than  all  Racine  and  all  Corneille.  You, 
brother,  who  have  so  much  sagacity,  will  discern  that  this 
disproportionate  preference  argues  an  ill- regulated  mind ; 
but  she  is  fortunate  in  a  preceptress.  I  will  give  her  a 
system,  a  method  of  thought,  a  set  of  opinions ;  I  will  give 
her  the  perfect  control  and  guidance  of  her  feelings.' 

'  Be  sure  you  do,  Hortense  :  here  she  comes.  That  was 
her  shadow  passed  the  window,  I  believe.' 

'  Ah  !  truly.  She  is  too  early — half  an  hour  before  her 
time. — My  child,  what  brings  you  here  before  I  have  break- 
fasted ? ' 

This  question  was  addressed  to  an  individual  who  now 
entered  the  room,  a  young  girl,  wrapped  in  a  winter  mantle, 
the  folds  of  which  were  gathered  with  some  grace  round  an 
apparently  slender  figure. 

'  I  came  in  haste  to  see  how  you  were,  Hortense,  and 
how  Robert  was,  too.  I  was  sure  you  would  be  both  grieved 
by  what  happened  last  night.  I  did  not  hear  till  this  morn- 
ing :  my  uncle  told  me  at  breakfast.' 

'  Ah !  it  is  unspeakable.  You  sympathize  with  us  ? 
Your  uncle  sympathizes  with  us  ?  ' 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  69 

'  My  uncle  is  very  angry ;  but  he  was  with  Robert,  I 
believe :  was  he  not  ?  Did  he  not  go  with  you  to  Stilbro' 
Moor?' 

I  Yes :   we  set  out  in  very  martial  style,  Caroline :  but 
the  prisoners  we  went  to  rescue  met  us  half-way.' 

'  Of  course,  nobody  was  hurt  ? ' 

'  Why,  no ;  only  Joe  Scott's  wrists  were  a  little  galled 
with  being  pinioned  too  tightly  behind  his  back.' 

'  You  were  not  there  ?  You  were  not  with  the  waggons 
when  they  were  attacked  ? ' 

'  No  :  one  seldom  has  the  fortune  to  be  present  at  occur- 
rences at  which  one  would  particularly  wish  to  assist.' 

'  Where  are  you  going  this  morning  ?  I  saw  Murgatroyd 
saddling  your  horse  in  the  yard.' 

'  To  Whinbury :  it  is  market  day.' 

'  Mr.  Yorke  is  going  too  :  I  met  him  in  his  gig.  Come 
home  with  him.' 

'Why?' 

'Two  are  better  than  one,  and  nobody  dislikes  Mr. 
Yorke ;  at  least,  poor  people  do  not  dislike  him.' 

'  Therefore  he  would  be  a  protection  to  me,  who  am 
hated?' 

'  Who  are  misunderstood :  that,  probably,  is  the  word. 
Shall  you  be  late  ? — Will  he  be  late,  cousin  Hortense  ?  ' 

'  It  is  too  probable  :  he  has  often  much  business  to 
transact  at  Whinbury.  Have  you  brought  your  exercise- 
book,  child  ? ' 

'  Yes.     What  time  will  you  return,  Robert  ? ' 

I 1  generally  return  at  seven.     Do  you  wish  me  to  be  at 
home  earlier  ? ' 

'  Try  rather  to  be  back  by  six.  It  is  not  absolutely  dark 
at  six  now  ;  but  by  seven  daylight  is  quite  gone.' 

'  And  what  danger  is  to  be  apprehended,  Caroline,  when 
daylight  is  gone  ?  What  peril  do  you  conceive  comes  as  the 
companion  of  darkness  for  me  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  define  my  fears ;  but  we  all 
have  a  certain  anxiety  at  present  about  our  friends.  My 


70  SHIELEY 

uncle  calls  these  times  dangerous  :  he  says,  too,  that  mill- 
owners  are  unpopular.' 

'  And  I  one  of  the  most  unpopular  ?  Is  not  that  the 
fact  ?  You  are  reluctant  to  speak  out  plainly,  but  at  heart 
you  think  me  liable  to  Pearson's  fate,  who  was  shot  at — 
not,  indeed,  from  behind  a  hedge,  but  in  his  own  house, 
through  his  staircase-window,  as  he  was  going  to  bed.' 

'  Anne  Pearson  showed  me  the  bullet  in  the  chamber- 
door,'  remarked  Caroline,  gravely,  as  she  folded  her  mantle, 
and  arranged  it  and  her  muff  on  a  side-table.  '  You  know,' 
she  continued,  '  there  is  a  hedge  all  the  way  along  the  road 
from  hei*e  to  Whinbuiy,  and  there  are  the  Fieldhead  planta- 
tions to  pass  ;  but  you  will  be  back  by  six — or  before  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  he  will,'  affirmed  Horfcense.  '  And  now,  my 
child,  prepare  your  lessons  for  repetition,  while  I  put  the 
peas  to  soak  for  the  pur£e  at  dinner.' 

With  this  direction,  she  left  the  room. 

'  You  suspect  I  have  many  enemies,  then,  Caroline,'  said 
Mr.  Moore  ;  '  and,  doubtless,  you  know  me  to  be  destitute  of 
friends  ? ' 

'  Not  destitute,  Kobert.  There  is  your  sister,  your 
brother  Louis — whom  I  have  never  seen — there  is  Mr. 
Yorke,  and  there  is  my  uncle ;  besides,  of  course,  many 
more.' 

Eobert  smiled.  '  You  would  be  puzzled  to  name  your 
"  many  more,"  '  said  he.  '  But  show  me  your  exercise-book. 
What  extreme  pains  you  take  with  the  writing  !  My  sister, 
I  suppose,  exacts  this  care :  she  wants  to  form  you  in  all 
things  after  the  model  of  a  Flemish  school-girl.  What  life 
are  you  destined  for,  Caroline  ?  What  will  you  do  with  your 
French,  drawing,  and  other  accomplishments  when  they  arc 
acquired  ?  ' 

'  You  may  well  say,  when  they  are  acquired ;  for,  as  you 
are  aware,  till  Horfcense  began  to  teach  me,  I  knew  precious 
little.  As  to  the  life  I  am  destined  for,  I  cannot  tell :  I 
suppose,  to  keep  my  uncle's  house,  till —  -'  she  hesitated. 

•  Till  what  ?     Till  he  dies  ? ' 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  71 

I  No.     How  harsh   to  say  that !   I  never  think   of  his 
dying :  he  is  only  fifty-five.     But  till — in  short,  till  events 
offer  other  occupations  for  me.' 

'  A  remarkably  vague  prospect !  Are  you  content  with 
it?' 

'  I  used  to  be,  formerly.  Children,  you  know,  have 
little  reflection,  or  rather  their  reflections  run  on  ideal 
themes.  There  are  moments  now  when  I  am  not  quite 
satisfied.' 

•Why?' 

'  I  am  making  no  money — earning  nothing.' 

'  You  come  to  the  point,  Lina ;  you,  too,  then  wish  to 
make  money  ? ' 

'  I  do :  I  should  like  an  occupation  ;  and  if  I  were  a  boy, 
it  would  not  be  so  difficult  to  find  one.  I  see  such  an  easy, 
pleasant  way  of  learning  a  business,  and  making  my  way  in 
life.' 

'  Go  on  :  let  us  hear  what  way  ?  ' 

I 1  could  be  apprenticed  to  your  trade — the  cloth- trade  : 
I  could  learn  it  of  you,  as  we  are  distant  relations.     I  would 
do  the  counting-house  work,  keep  the  books,  and  write  the 
letters,  while  you  went   to   market.     I   know   you   greatly 
desire  to  be  rich,  in  order  to  pay  your  father's  debts ;  per- 
haps I  could  help  you  to  get  rich.' 

'  Help  me?    You  should  think  of  yourself.' 

1 1  do  think  of  myself ;  but  must  one  for  ever  think  only 
of  oneself  ? ' 

'  Of  whom  else  do  I  think  ?  Of  whom  else  dare  I  think  ? 
The  poor  ought  to  have  no  large  sympathies ;  it  is  their  duty 
to  be  narrow.' 

'  No,  Kobert ' 

'  Yes,  Caroline.  Poverty  is  necessarily  selfish,  contracted, 
grovelling,  anxious.  Now  and  then  a  poor  man's  heart, 
when  certain  beams  and  dews  visit  it,  may  swell  like  the 
budding  vegetation  in  yonder  garden  on  this  spring-day,  may 
feel  ripe  to  evolve  in  foliage — perhaps  blossom  ;  but  he  must 
not  encourage  the  pleasant  impulse ;  he  must  invoke 


72  SHIELEY 

Prudence  to  check  it,  with  that  frosty  breath  of  hers,  which 
is  as  nipping  as  any  north  wind.' 

'  No  cottage  would  be  happy  then.' 

'  When  I  speak  of  poverty,  I  do  not  so  much  mean  the 
natural,  habitual  poverty  of  the  working-man,  as  the  em- 
barrassed penury  of  the  man  in  debt ;  my  grub-worm  is 
always  a  straitened,  struggling,  care-worn  tradesman.' 

'  Cherish  hope,  not  anxiety.  Certain  ideas  have  become 
too  fixed  in  your  mind,  it  may  be  presumptuous  to  say  it,  but 
I  have  the  impression  that  there  is  something  wrong  in  your 
notions  of  the  best  means  of  attaining  happiness  :  as  there  is 
in '  Second  hesitation. 

'  I  am  all  ear,  Caroline.' 

1  In — (courage !  let  me  speak  the  truth) — in  your  manner 
— mind,  I  say  only  manner — to  these  Yorkshire  workpeople.' 

'  You  have  often  wanted  to  toll  me  that,  have  you  not  ?  ' 

1  Yes  ;  often — very  often.' 

1  The  faults  of  my  manner  are,  I  think,  only  negative.  I 
am  not  proud  ;  what  has  a  man  in  my  position  to  be  proud  of  ? 
I  am  only  taciturn,  phlegmatic,  and  joyless.' 

1  As  if  your  living  cloth-dressers  were  all  machines  like 
your  frames  and  shears :  in  your  own  house  you  seem 
different.' 

'  To  those  in  my  own  house  I  am  no  alien,  which  I  am  to 
these  English  clowns.  I  might  act  the  benevolent  with  them, 
but  acting  is  not  my  forte.  I  find  them  irrational,  perverse ; 
they  hinder  me  when  I  long  to  hurry  forward.  In  treating 
them  justly,  I  fulfil  my  whole  duty  towards  them.' 

1  You  don't  expect  them  to  love  you,  of  course  ?  ' 

'  Nor  wish  it.' 

1  Ah  ! '  said  the  monitress,  shaking  her  head,  and  heaving 
a  deep  sigh.  With  this  ejaculation,  indicative  that  she 
perceived  a  screw  to  be  loose  somewhere,  but  that  it  was  out 
of  her  reach  to  set  it  right,  she  bent  over  her  grammar,  and 
sought  the  rule  and  exercise  for  the  day. 

'  I  suppose  I  am  not  an  affectionate  man,  Caroline ;  the 
attachment  of  a  very  few  suffices  me.' 


HOLLOW'S  COTTAGE  73 

1  If  you  please,  Robert,  will  you  mend  me  a  pen  or  two 
before  you  go  ? ' 

'  First  let  me  rule  your  book,  for  you  always  contrive  to 
draw  the  lines  aslant.  .  .  .  There  now.  .  .  .  And 
now  for  the  pens  :  you  like  a  fine  one,  I  think  ?  ' 

'  Such  as  you  generally  make  for  me  and  Hortense  ;  not 
your  own  broad  points.' 

'  If  I  were  of  Louis's  calling,  I  might  stay  at  home  and 
dedicate  this  morning  to  you  and  your  studies  :  whereas  I 
must  spend  it  in  Sykes'  wool-warehouse.' 

'  You  will  be  making  money.' 

'  More  likely  losing  it.' 

As  he  finished  mending  the  pens,  a  horse,  saddled  and 
bridled,  was  brought  up  to  the  garden-gate. 

'  There,  Fred  is  ready  for  me  ;  I  must  go.  I'll  take  one 
look  to  see  what  the  spring  has  done  in  the  south  border,  too, 
first.' 

He  quitted  the  room  and  went  out  into  the  garden -ground 
behind  the  mill.  A  sweet  fringe  of  young  verdure  and  opening 
flowers — snowdrop,  crocus,  even  primrose — bloomed  in  the 
sunshine  under  the  hot  wall  of  the  factory.  Moore  plucked 
here  and  there  a  blossom  and  leaf,  till  he  had  collected  a 
little  bouquet ;  he  returned  to  the  parlour,  pilfered  a  thread 
of  silk  from  his  sister's  work-basket,  tied  the  flowers,  and  laid 
them  on  Caroline's  desk. 

'  Now,  good  morning.' 

'  Thank  you,  Robert :  it  is  pretty ;  it  looks,  as  it  lies  there, 
like  sparkles  of  sunshine  and  blue  sky :  good-morning.' 

He  went  to  the  door — stopped— opened  his  lips  as  if  to 
speak — said  nothing,  and  moved  on.  He  passed  through  the 
wicket,  and  mounted  his  horse  :  in  a  second  he  had  flung 
himself  from  the  saddle  again,  transferred  the  reins  to 
Murgatroyd,  and  re-entered  the  cottage. 

'  I  forgot  my  gloves,'  he  said,  appearing  to  take  some- 
thing from  the  side-table  ;  then,  as  an  impromptu  thought,  he 
remarked, '  You  have  no  binding  engagement  at  home  perhaps, 
Caroline  ? ' 


74  SHIRLEY 

'  I  never  have :  some  children's  socks,  which  Mrs. 
Eamsden  has  ordered,  to  knit  for  the  Jew-basket :  but  they 
will  keep.' 

'  Jew-basket  be   sold  !      Never   was  utensil  better 

named.  Anything  more  Jewish  than  it — its  contents,  and 
their  prices — cannot  be  conceived  :  but  I  see  something,  a  very 
tiny  curl,  at  the  corners  of  your  lip,  which  tells  me  that  you 
know  its  merits  as  well  as  I  do.  Forget  the  Jew-basket,  then, 
and  spend  the  day  here  as  a  change.  Your  uncle  won't 
break  his  heart  at  your  absence  ?  ' 

She  smiled. 

•No.' 

1  The  old  Cossack !  I  daresay  not,'  muttered  Moore. 
'  Then  stay  and  dine  with  Hortense  ;  she  will  be  glad  of  your 
company  ;  I  shall  return  in  good  time.  We  will  have  a  little 
reading  in  the  evening :  the  moon  rises  at  half-past  eight, 
and  I  will  walk  up  to  the  Rectory  with  you  at  nine.  Do  you 
agree  ? ' 

She  nodded  her  head  ;  and  her  eyes  lit  up. 

Moore  lingered  yet  two  minutes  :  he  bent  over  Caroline's 
denk  and  glanced  at  her  grammar,  he  fingered  her  pen,  he 
lifted  her  bouquet  and  played  with  it ;  his  horse  stamped  im- 
patient ;  Fred  Murgatroyd  hemmed  and  coughed  at  the  gate, 
as  if  he  wondered  what  in  the  world  his  master  was  doing. 
'  Good  morning,'  again  said  Moore,  and  finally  vanished. 

Hortense,  coming  in  ten  minutes  after,  found,  to  her 
surprise,  that  Caroline  had  not  yet  commenced  her  exercise. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CORIOLANUS 

MADEMOISELLE  MOORE  had  that  morning  a  somewhat  absent- 
minded  pupil.  Caroline  forgot,  again  and  again,  the  explana- 
tions which  were  given  to  her ;  however,  she  still  bore  with 
unclouded  mood  the  chidings  her  inattention  brought  upon 
her.  Sitting  in  the  sunshine,  near  the  window,  she  seemed 
to  receive  with  its  warmth  a  kind  influence,  which  made  her 
both  happy  and  good.  Thus  disposed,  she  looked  her  best, 
and  her  best  was  a  pleasing  vision. 

To  her  had  not  been  denied  the  gift  of  beauty  ;  it  was  not 
absolutely  necessary  to  know  her  in  order  to  like  her  ;  she 
was  fair  enough  to  please,  even  at  the  first  view.  Her  shape 
suited  her  age,  it  was  girlish,  light,  and  pliant ;  every  curve 
was  neat,  every  limb  proportionate  :  her  face  was  expressive 
and  gentle  ;  her  eyes  were  handsome,  and  gifted  at  times  with 
a  winning  beam  that  stole  into  the  heart,  with  a  language 
that  spoke  softly  to  the  affections.  Her  mouth  was  very 
pretty  ;  she  had  a  delicate  skin,  and  a  fine  flow  of  brown  hair, 
which  she  knew  how  to  arrange  with  taste  ;  curls  became  her 
and  she  possessed  them  in  picturesque  profusion.  Her  style 
of  dress  announced  taste  in  the  wearer  ;  very  unobtrusive  in 
fashion,  far  from  costly  in  material,  but  suitable  in  colour  to 
the  fair  complexion  with  which  it  contrasted,  and  in  make  to 
the  slight  form  which  it  draped.  Her  present  winter  garb 
was  of  merino,  the  same  soft  shade  of  brown  as  her  hair  ;  the 
little  collar  round  her  neck  lay  over  a  pink  ribbon,  and  was 
fastened  with  a  pink  knot :  she  wore  no  other  decoration. 

So  much  for  Carol! no  Helstone's  appearance;  as  to  her 


76  SHIRLEY 

character  or  intellect,  if  she  had  any,  they  must  speak  for 
themselves  in  due  time. 

Her  connections  are  soon  explained.  She  was  the  child 
of  parents  separated  soon  after  her  birth,  in  consequence  of 
disagreement  of  disposition.  Her  mother  was  the  half-sister 
of  Mr.  Moore's  father ;  thus — though  there  was  no  mixture 
of  blood — she  was,  in  a  distant  sense,  the  cousin  of  Robert, 
Louis,  and  Hortense.  Her  father  was  the  brother  of  Mr. 
Helstone — a  man  of  the  character  friends  desire  not  to  recall, 
after  death  has  once  settled  all  earthly  accounts.  He  had 
rendered  his  wife  unhappy  :  the  reports  which  were  known 
to  be  true  concerning  him,  had  given  an  air  of  probability  to 
those  which  were  falsely  circulated  respecting  his  better- 
principled  brother.  Caroline  had  never  known  her  mother, 
as  she  was  taken  from  her  in  infancy,  and  had  not  since 
seen  her ;  her  father  died  comparatively  young,  and  her 
uncle,  the  Rector,  had  for  some  years  been  her  sole  guardian. 
He  was  not,  as  we  are  aware,  much  adapted,  either  by 
nature  or  habits,  to  have  the  charge  of  a  young  girl :  he  had 
taken  little  trouble  about  her  education  ;  probably,  he  would 
have  taken  none  if  she,  finding  herself  neglected,  had  not 
grown  anxious  on  her  own  account,  and  asked,  every  now 
and  then,  for  a  little  attention,  and  for  the  means  of  acquir- 
ing such  amount  of  knowledge  as  could  not  be  dispensed 
with.  Still,  she  had  a  depressing  feeling  that  she  was 
inferior,  that  her  attainments  were  fewer  than  were  usually 
possessed  by  girls  of  her  age  and  station ;  and  very  glad 
was  she  to  avail  herself  of  the  kind  offer  made  by  her  cousin 
Hortense,  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  latter  at  Hollow's- 
mill,  to  teach  her  French  and  fine  needlework.  Mdlle. 
Moore,  for  her  part,  delighted  in  the  task,  because  it  gave 
her  importance  ;  she  liked  to  lord  it  a  little  over  a  docile  yet 
quick  pupil.  She  took  Caroline  precisely  at  her  own 
estimate,  as  an  irregularly-taught,  even  ignorant  girl ;  and 
when  she  found  that  she  made  rapid  and  eager  progress,  it 
was  to  no  talent,  no  application  in  the  scholar,  she  ascribed 
the  improvement,  but  entirely  to  her  own  superior  method  of 


CORIOLANUS  77 

teaching;  when  she  found  that  Caroline,  unskilled  in 
routine,  had  a  knowledge  of  her  own— desultory  but  varied, 
the  discovery  caused  her  no  surprise,  for  she  still  imagined 
that  from  her  conversation  had  the  girl  unawares  gleaned 
these  treasures :  she  thought  it  even  when  forced  to  feel 
that  her  pupil  knew  much  on  subjects  whereof  she  knew 
little :  the  idea  was  not  logical,  but  Hortense  had  perfect 
faith  in  it. 

Mademoiselle,  who  prided  herself  on  possessing  'un 
esprit  positif,'  and  on  entertaining  a  decided  preference  for 
dry  studies,  kept  her  young  cousin  to  the  same  as  closely  as 
she  could.  She  worked  her  unrelentingly  at  the  grammar 
of  the  French  language,  assigning  her,  as  the  most  im- 
proving exercise  she  could  devise,  interminable  'analyses 
logiques.'  These  '  analyses '  were  by  no  means  a  source 
of  particular  pleasure  to  Caroline ;  she  thought  she  could 
have  learned  French  just  as  well  without  them,  and  grudged 
excessively  the  time  spent  in  pondering  over  '  propositions 
principales  et  incidentes ; '  in  deciding  the  '  incidente  deter- 
minative,' and  the  '  incidente  applicative ; '  in  examining 
whether  the  proposition  was  'pleine,'  '  elliptique,'  or 
'implicite.'  Sometimes  she  lost  herself  in  the  maze,  and 
when  so  lost,  she  would,  now  and  then  (while  Hortense  was 
rummaging  her  drawers  up-stairs, — an  unaccountable 
occupation  in  which  she  spent  a  large  portion  of  each  day, 
arranging,  disarranging,  re-arrangiug  and  counter-arranging) 
— carry  her  book  to  Robert  in  the  counting-house,  and  get 
the  rough  place  made  smooth  by  his  aid.  j!ilr.  Moore 
possessed  a  clear,  tranquil  brain  of  his  own ;  almost  as  soon 
as  he  looked  at  Caroline's  little  difficulties  they  seemed  to 
dissolve  beneath  his  eye :  in  two  minutes  he  would  explain 
all — in  two  words  give  the  key  to  the  puzzle.  She  thought 
if  Hortense  could  only  teach  like  him,  how  much  faster  she 
might  learn  !  Repaying  him  by  an  admiring  and  grateful 
smile,  rather  shed  at  his  feet  than  lifted  to  his  face,  she 
would  leave  the  mill  reluctantly  to  go  back  to  the  cottage, 
and  then,  while  she  completed  the  exercise,  or  worked  out 


78  SHIRLEY 

the  sum  (for  Mdlle.  Moore  taught  her  arithmetic,  too),  she 
would  wish  nature  had  made  her  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl, 
that  she  might  ask  Robert  to  let  her  be  his  clerk,  and  sit 
with  him  in  the  counting-house,  instead  of  sitting  with 
Hortense  in  the  parlour. 

Occasionally — but  this  happened  very  rarely — she  spent 
the  evening  at  Hollow's  cottage.  Sometimes  during  these 
visits,  Moore  was  away,  attending  a  market ;  sometimes 
he  was  gone  to  Mr.  Yorke's  ,  often  he  was  engaged  with  a 
male  visitor  in  another  room ;  but  sometimes,  too,  he  was 
at  home,  disengaged,  free  to  talk  with  Caroline.  When  this 
was  the  case,  the  evening  hours  passed  on  wings  of  light ; 
they  were  gone  before  they  were  counted.  There  was  no 
room  in  England  so  pleasant  as  that  small  parlour  when  the 
three  cousins  occupied  it.  Hortense,  when  she  was  not 
teaching,  or  scolding,  or  cooking,  was  far  from  ill-humoured ; 
it  was  her  custom  to  relax  towards  evening,  and  to  be  kind 
to  her  young  English  kinswoman.  There  was  a  means,  too, 
of  rendering  her  delightful,  by  inducing  her  to  take  her 
guitar  and  sing  and  play;  she  then  became  quite  good- 
natured  ;  and  as  she  played  with  skill,  and  had  a  well-toned 
voice,  it  was  not  disagreeable  to  listen  to  her  :  it  would  have 
been  absolutely  agreeable,  except  that  her  formal  and  self- 
important  character  modulated  her  strains,  as  it  impressed 
her  manners  and  moulded  her  countenance. 

Mr.  Moore,  released  from  the  business-yoke,  was,  if  not 
lively  himself,  a  willing  spectator  of  Caroline's  liveliness,  a 
complacent  listener  to  her  talk,  a  ready  respondent  to  her 
questions.  He  was  something  agreeable  to  sit  near,  to 
hover  round,  to  address  and  look  at.  Sometimes  he  was 
better  than  this, — almost  animated,  quite  gentle  and 
friendly. 

The  drawback  was,  that  by  the  next  morning  he  was 
sure  to  be  frozen  up  again ;  and  however  much  he  seemed, 
in  his  quiet  way,  to  enjoy  these  social  evenings,  he  rarely 
contrived  their  recurrence.  This  circumstance  puzzled  the 
inexperienced  head  of  his  cousin.  '  If  I  had  a  means  of 


CORIOLANtIS  79 

happiness  at  my  command,'  she  thought,  '  1  would  employ 
that  means  often  ;  I  would  keep  it  bright  with  use,  and  not 
let  it  lie  for  weeks  aside,  till  it  gets  rusty.1 

Yet  she  was  careful  not  to  put  in  practice  her  own  theory. 
Much  as  she  liked  an  evening  visit  to  the  cottage,  she  never 
paid  one  unasked.  Often,  indeed,  when  pressed  by  Hortense 
to  come,  she  would  refuse,  because  Eobert  did  not  second,  or 
but  slightly  seconded  the  request.  This  morning  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever,  of  his  own  unprompted  will,  given 
her  an  invitation ;  and  then  he  had  spoken  so  kindly,  that 
in  hearing  him  she  had  received  a  sense  of  happiness 
sufficient  to  keep  her  glad  for  the  whole  day. 

The  morning  passed  as  usual.  Mademoiselle,  ever 
breathlessly  busy,  spent  it  in  bustling  from  kitchen  to 
parlour — now  scolding  Sarah,  now  looking  over  Caroline's 
exercise  or  hearing  her  repetition-lesson.  However  fault- 
lessly these  tasks  were  achieved,  Mademoiselle  never  com- 
mended :  it  was  a  maxim  with  her  that  praise  is  inconsistent 
with  a  teacher's  dignity,  and  that  blame,  in  more  or  less 
unqualified  measure,  is  indispensable  to  it.  She  thought 
incessant  reprimand,  severe  or  slight,  quite  necessary  to  the 
maintenance  of  her  authority  ;  and  if  no  possible  error  was 
to  be  found  in  the  lesson,  it  was  the  pupil's  carriage,  or  air, 
or  dress,  or  mien,  which  required  correction. 

The  usual  affray  took  place  about  the  dinner,  which  meal, 
when  Sarah  at  last  brought  it  into  the  room,  she  almost  flung 
upon  the  table,  with  a  look  that  expressed  quite  plainly — '  I 
never  dished  such  stuff  i'  my  life  afore ;  it's  not  fit  for  dogs.' 
Notwithstanding  Sarah's  scorn,  it  was  a  savoury  repast 
enough.  The  soup  was  a  sort  of  puree  of  dried  peas,  which 
Mademoiselle  had  prepared  amidst  bitter  lamentations  that 
in  this  desolate  country  of  England  no  haricot  beans  were  to 
be  had.  Then  came  a  dish  of  meat— nature  unknown,  but 
supposed  to  be  miscellaneous — singularly  chopped  up  with 
crumbs  of  bread,  seasoned  uniquely  though  not  unpleasantly, 
and  baked  in  a  mould  ;  a  queer,  but  by  no  moans  unpala- 
table dish.  Greens,  oddly  bruised,  formed  the  accompanying 


80  SHIELEY 

vegetable ;  and  a  pate  of  fruit,  conserved  after  a  receipt 
devised  by  Madame  Gerard  Moore's  '  grand'mere,'  and  from 
the  taste  of  which  it  appeared  probable  that '  melasse '  had 
been  substituted  for  sugar,  completed  the  dinner. 

Caroline  had  no  objection  to  this  Belgian  cookery : 
indeed,  she  rather  liked  it  for  a  change,  and  it  was  well  she 
did  so,  for  had  she  evinced  any  disrelish  thereof,  such 
manifestation  would  have  injured  her  in  Mademoiselle's 
good  graces  for  ever ;  a  positive  crime  might  have  been 
more  easily  pardoned  than  a  symptom  of  distaste  for  the 
foreign  comestibles. 

Soon  after  dinner  Caroline  coaxed  her  governess-cousin 
up-stairs  to  dress :  this  manoeuvre  required  management. 
To  have  hinted  that  the  jupon,  camisole,  and  curl-papers 
were  odious  objects,  or  indeed  other  than  quite  meritorious 
points,  would  have  been  a  felony.  Any  premature  attempt 
to  urge  their  disappearance  was  therefore  unwise,  and  would 
be  likely  to  issue  in  the  persevering  wear  of  them  during  the 
whole  day.  Carefully  avoiding  rocks  and  quicksands,  how- 
ever, the  pupil,  on  pretence  of  requiring  a  change  of  scene, 
contrived  to  get  the  teacher  aloft,  and,  once  in  the  bed-room, 
she  persuaded  her  that  it  was  not  worth  while  returning 
thither,  and  that  she  might  as  well  make  her  toilette  now ; 
and  while  Mademoiselle  delivered  a  solemn  homily  on  her 
own  surpassing  merit  in  disregarding  all  frivolities  of 
fashion,  Caroline  denuded  her  of  the  camisole,  invested  her 
with  a  decent  gown,  arranged  her  collar,  hair,  &c.,  and 
made  her  quite  presentable.  But  Hortense  would  put  the 
finishing  touches  herself,  and  these  finishing  touches  con- 
sisted in  a  thick  handkerchief  tied  round  the  throat,  and  a 
large,  servant-like  black  apron,  which  spoiled  everything. 
On  no  account  would  Mademoiselle  have  appeared  in  her 
own  house  without  the  thick  handkerchief  and  the  volu- 
minous apron  :  the  first  was  a  positive  matter  of  morality — 
it  was  quite  improper  not  to  wear  a  fichu  ;  the  second  was 
the  ensign  of  a  good  housewife — she  appeared  to  think  that 
by  means  of  it  she  somehow  effected  a  large  saving  in  her 


COKIOLANUS  81 

brother's  income.  She  had,  with  her  own  hands,  made  and 
presented  to  Caroline  similar  equipments ;  and  the  only 
serious  quarrel  they  had  ever  had,  and  which  still  left  a 
soreness  in  the  elder  cousin's  soul,  had  arisen  from  the 
refusal  of  the  younger  one  to  accept  of  and  profit  by  these 
elegant  presents. 

'  I  wear  a  high  dress  and  a  collar,'  said  Caroline,  '  and  I 
should  feel  suffocated  with  a  handkerchief  in  addition  ;  and 
my  short  aprons  do  quite  as  well  as  that  very  long  one  :  I 
would  rather  make  no  change.' 

Yet  Hortense,  by  dint  of  perseverance,  would  probably 
have  compelled  her  to  make  a  change,  had  not  Mr.  Moore 
chanced  to  overhear  a  dispute  on  the  subject,  and  decided 
that  Caroline's  little  aprons  would  suffice,  and  that,  in  his 
opinion,  as  she  was  still  but  a  child,  she  might  for  the 
present  dispense  with  the  fichu,  especially  as  her  curls  were 
long,  and  almost  touched  her  shoulders. 

There  was  no  appeal  against  Robert's  opinion,  therefore 
his  sister  was  compelled  to  yield ;  but  she  disapproved 
entirely  of  the  piquant  neatness  of  Caroline's  costume,  and 
the  ladylike  grace  of  her  appearance  :  something  more  solid 
and  homely,  she  would  have  considered  '  beaucoup  plus 
convenable.' 

The  afternoon  was  devoted  to  sewing.  Mademoiselle, 
like  most  Belgian  ladies,  was  specially  skilful  with  her 
needle.  She  by  no  means  thought  it  waste  of  time  to  devote 
unnumbered  hours  to  fine  embroidery,  sight-destroying  lace- 
work,  marvellous  netting  and  knitting,  and,  above  all,  to 
most  elaborate  stocking-mending.  She  would  give  a  day  to 
the  mending  of  two  holes  in  a  stocking  any  time,  and  think 
her  '  mission  '  nobly  fulfilled  when  she  had  accomplished  it. 
It  was  another  of  Caroline's  troubles  to  be  condemned  to 
learn  this  foreign  style  of  darning,  which  was  done  stitch  by 
stitch,  so  as  exactly  to  imitate  the  fabric  of  the  stocking 
itself ;  a  wearifu*  process,  but  considered  by  Hortense 
Gerard,  and  by  her  ancestresses  before  her  for  long  genera- 
tions back,  as  one  of  the  first  '  duties  of  woman.'  She  her- 


82  SHIRLEY 

self  had  had  a  needle,  cotton,  and  a  fearfully  torn  stocking 
put  into  her  hand  while  she  yet  wore  a  child's  coif  on  her 
little  black  head  :  her  '  hauts  faits  '  in  the  darning  line  had 
been  exhibited  to  company  ere  she  was  six  years  old,  and 
when  she  first  discovered  that  Caroline  was  profoundly 
ignorant  of  this  most  essential  of  attainments,  she  could 
have  wept  with  pity  over  her  miserably  neglected  youth. 

No  time  did  she  lose  in  seeking  up  a  hopeless  pair  of  hose, 
of  which  the  heels  were  entirely  gone,  and  in  setting  the 
ignorant  English  girl  to  repair  the  deficiency  :  this  task  had 
been  commenced  two  years  ago,  and  Caroline  had  the  stock- 
ings in  her  work-bag  yet.  She  did  a  few  rows  every  day,  by 
way  of  penance  for  the  expiation  of  her  sins :  they  were  a 
grievous  burden  to  her ;  she  would  much  have  liked  to  put 
them  in  the  fire ;  and  once  Mr.  Moore,  who  had  observed 
her  sitting  and  sighing  over  them,  had  proposed  a  private 
incremation  in  the  counting-house,  but  to  this  proposal 
Caroline  knew  it  would  have  been  impolitic  to  accede — the 
result  could  only  be  a  fresh  pair  of  hose,  probably  in  worse 
condition  :  she  adhered,  therefore,  to  the  ills  she  knew. 

All  the  afternoon  the  two  ladies  sat  and  sewed,  till  the 
eyes  and  fingers,  and  even  the  spirits  of  one  of  them  were 
weary.  The  sky  since  dinner  had  darkened  ;  it  had  begun 
to  rain  again,  to  pour  fast;  secret  fears  began  to  steal  on 
Caroline  that  Eobert  would  be  persuaded  by  Mr.  Sykes  or 
Mr.  Yorke  to  remain  at  Whinbury  till  it  cleared,  and  of  that 
there  appeared  no  present  chance.  Five  o'clock  struck,  and 
time  stole  on ;  still  the  clouds  streamed :  a  sighing  wind 
whispered  in  the  roof-trees  of  the  cottage ;  day  seemed 
already  closing  ;  the  parlour-fire  shed  on  the  clear  hearth  a 
glow  ruddy  as  at  twilight. 

1  It  will  not  be  fair  till  the  moon  rises,'  pronounced 
Mademoiselle  Moore  ;  '  consequently,  I  feel  assured  that  my 
brother  will  not  return  till  then  :  indeed,  I  should  be  sorry 
if  he  did.  We  will  have  coffee  :  it  would  be  vain  to  wait  for 
him.' 

'  I  am  tired — may  I  leave  my  work  now,  cousin  ? ' 


CORIOLANUS  83 

'  You  may,  since  it  grows  too  dark  to  see  to  do  it  well. 
Fold  it  up ;  put  it  carefully  in  your  bag ;  then  step  into  the 
kitchen,  and  desire  Sarah  to  bring  in  the  gouter,  or  tea,  as 
you  call  it.' 

'  But  it  has  not  yet  struck  six  :  he  may  still  come.' 

'  He  will  not,  I  tell  you.  I  can  calculate  his  movements. 
I  understand  my  brother.' 

Suspense  is  irksome,  disappointment  bitter.  All  the 
world  has,  some  time  or  other,  felt  that.  Caroline,  obedient 
to  orders,  passed  into  the  kitchen.  Sarah  was  making  a 
dress  for  herself  at  the  table. 

'  You  are  to  bring  in  coffee,'  said  the  young  lady,  in  a 
spiritless  tone  ;  and  then  she  leaned  her  arm  and  head 
against  the  kitchen  mantelpiece,  and  hung  listlessly  over  the 
fire. 

'  How  low  you  seem,  miss  !  But  it's  all  because  your 
cousin  keeps  you  so  close  to  work.  It's  a  shame  ! ' 

'  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Sarah,'  was  the  brief  reply. 

'  Oh  !  but  I  know  it  is.  You're  fit  to  cry  just  this 
minute,  for  nothing  else  but  because  you've  sat  still  the 
whole  day.  It  would  make  a  kitten  dull  to  be  mewed  up  so.' 

'  Sarah,  does  your  master  often  come  home  early  from 
market  when  it  is  wet  ? ' 

'  Never,  hardly ;  but  just  to-day,  for  some  reason,  he  has 
made  a  difference.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  He  is  come  :  I  am  certain  I  saw  Murgatroyd  lead  his 
horse  into  the  yard  by  the  back-way,  when  I  went  to  get 
some  water  at  the  pump  five  minutes  since.  He  was  in  the 
counting-house  with  Joe  Scott,  I  believe.' 

'  You  are  mistaken.' 

'  What  should  I  be  mistaken  for  ?  I  know  his  horse 
surely  ? ' 

'  But  you  did  not  see  himself  ? ' 

'  I  heard  him  speak,  though.  He  was  saying  something 
to  Joe  Scott  about  having  settled  all  concerning  ways  and 
means,  and  that  there  would  be  a  new  set  of  frames  in  the 


84  SHIKLEY 

mill  before  another  week  passed ;  and  that  this  time  ho 
would  get  four  soldiers  from  Stilbro'  barracks  to  guard  the 
waggon.' 

1  Sarah,  are  you  making  a  gown  ?  ' 

'  Yes  :  is  it  a  handsome  one  ?  ' 

'  Beautiful !  Get  the  coffee  ready.  I'll  finish  cutting 
out  that  sleeve  for  you ;  and  I'll  give  you  some  trimming 
for  it.  I  have  some  narrow  satin  ribbon  of  a  colour  that 
will  just  match.' 

1  You're  very  kind,  miss.' 

'  Be  quick,  there's  a  good  girl ;  but  first  put  your  master's 
shoes  on  the  hearth :  he  will  take  his  boots  off  when  he 
comes  in.  I  hear  him — he  is  coming.' 

'  Miss  !  you're  cutting  the  stuff  wrong.' 

'  So  I  am  ;  but  it  is  only  a  snip  :  there  is  no  harm  done.' 

The  kitchen-door  opened ;  Mr.  Moore  entered,  very  wet 
and  cold.  Caroline  half-turned  from  her  dressmaking  occu- 
pation, but  renewed  it  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  gain  a  minute's 
time  for  some  pui'pose.  Bent  over  the  di'ess,  her  face  was 
hidden  ;  there  was  an  attempt  to  settle  her  features  and  veil 
their  expression,  which  failed  :  when  she  at  last  met  Mr. 
Moore,  her  countenance  beamed. 

'  We  had  ceased  to  expect  you  :  they  asserted  you  would 
not  come,'  she  said. 

'  But  I  promised  to  return  soon  :  you  expected  me,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

'  No,  Kobert :  I  dared  not  when  it  rained  so  fast.  And 
you  are  wet  and  chilled — change  everything :  if  you  took 
cold,  I  should — we  should  blame  ourselves  in  some  measure.' 

'  I  am  not  wet  through :  my  riding-coat  is  water-proof. 
Dry  shoes  are  all  I  require. — There  ....  the  fire  is  pleasant 
after  facing  the  cold  wind  and  rain  for  a  few  miles.' 

He  stood  on  the  kitchen-hearth  ;  Caroline  stood  beside 
him.  Mr.  Moore,  while  enjoying  the  genial  glow,  kept  his 
eyes  directed  towards  the  glittering  brasses  on  the  shelf 
above.  Chancing  for  an  instant  to  look  down,  his  glance 
rested  on  an  uplifted  face,  flushed,  smiling,  happy,  shaded 


COEIOLANUS  85 

with  silky  curls,  lit  with  fine  eyes.  Sarah  was  gone  into  the 
parlour  with  the  tray :  a  lecture  from  her  mistress  detained 
her  there.  Moore  placed  his  hand  a  moment  on  his  young 
cousin's  shoulder,  stooped,  and  left  a  kiss  on  her  forehead. 

'  Oh ! '  said  she,  as  if  the  action  had  unsealed  her  lips, 
1 1  was  miserable  when  I  thought  you  would  not  come :  I 
am  almost  too  happy  now !  Are  you  happy,  Robert  ?  Do 
you  like  to  come  home  ?  ' 

'  I  think  I  do ;  to-night,  at  least.' 

'  Are  you  certain  you  are  not  fretting  about  your  frames, 
and  your  business,  and  the  war  ?  ' 

'  Not  just  now.' 

'  Are  you  positive  you  don't  feel  Hollow's  cottage  too 
small  for  you,  and  narrow  and  dismal  ? ' 

'  At  this  moment,  no.' 

'  Can  you  affirm  that  you  are  not  bitter  at  heart  because 
rich  and  great  people  forget  you  ?  ' 

'  No  more  questions.  You  are  mistaken  if  you  think  I 
am  anxious  to  curry  favour  with  rich  and  great  people.  I 
only  want  means — a  position — a  career.' 

'  Which  your  own  talent  and  goodness  shall  win  you. 
You  were  made  to  be  great — you  shall  be  great.' 

'  I  wonder  now,  if  you  spoke  honestly  out  of  your  heart, 
what  receipt  you  would  give  me  for  acquiring  this  same 
greatness  ;  but  I  know  it— better  than  you  know  it  yourself. 
Would  it  be  efficacious  ?  would  it  work  ?  Yes — poverty, 
misery,  bankruptcy.  Oh  !  life  is  not  what  you  think  it, 
Lina  !  ' 

'  But  you  are  what  I  think  you.' 

1 1  am  not.' 

1  You  are  better,  then  ? ' 

'  Far  worse.' 

1  No  ;  far  better.     I  know  you  are  good.' 

1  How  do  you  know  it  ?  ' 

'  You  look  so ;  and  I  feel  you  are  so.' 

1  Where  do  you  feel  it  ? ' 

'  In  iny  heart.' 


86  SHIBLEY 

1  Ah !  you  judge  me  with  your  heart,  Lina :  you  should 
judge  me  with  your  head.' 

'  I  do ;  and  then  I  am  quite  proud  of  you.  Kobert,  you 
cannot  tell  all  my  thoughts  about  you.' 

Mr.  Moore's  dark  face  mustered  colour  ;  his  lips  smiled, 
and  yet  were  compressed ;  his  eyes  laughed,  and  yet  he 
resolutely  knit  his  brow. 

'  Think  meanly  of  me,  Lina,'  said  he.  '  Men,  in  general, 
are  a  sort  of  scum,  very  different  to  anything  of  which  you 
have  an  idea  ;  I  make  no  pretension  to  be  better  than  my 
fellows.' 

'  If  you  did,  I  should  not  esteem  you  so  much ;  it  is 
because  you  are  modest  that  I  have  such  confidence  in  your 
merit.' 

'  Are  you  flattering  me  ?  '  he  demanded,  turning  sharply 
upon  her,  and  searching  her  face  with  an  eye  of  acute  pene- 
tration. 

'  No,'  she  said,  softly,  laughing  at  his  sudden  quickness. 
She  seemed  to  think  it  unnecessary  to  proffer  any  eager 
disavowal  of  the  charge. 

'  You  don't  care  whether  I  think  you  flatter  me  or 
not?' 

'No.' 

'  You  are  so  secure  of  your  own  intentions  ? ' 

'  I  suppose  so.' 

1  What  are  they,  Caroline  ? ' 

'  Only  to  ease  my  mind  by  expressing  for  once  part  of 
what  I  think ;  and  then  to  make  you  better  satisfied  with 
yourself.' 

'By  assuring  me  that  my  kinswoman  is  my  sincere 
friend?' 

'  Just  so  ;  I  am  your  sincere  friend,  Robert." 

1  And  I  am — what  chance  and  change  shall  make  me, 
Lina.' 

'  Not  my  enemy,  however?  ' 

The  answer  was  cut  short  by  Sarah  and  her  mistress 
entering  the  kitchen  together  in  some  commotion.  They 


CORIOLANUS  87 

had  been  improving  the  time  which  Mr.  Moore  and  Miss 
Helstone  had  spent  in  dialogue  by  a  short  dispute  on  the 
subject  of  '  caf6  au  lait,'  which  Sarah  said  was  the  queerest 
mess  she  ever  saw,  and  a  waste  of  God's  good  gifts,  as  it  was 
1  the  nature  of  coffee  to  be  boiled  in  water ; '  and  which 
Mademoiselle  affirmed  to  be  '  un  breuvage  royal,'  a  thousand 
times  too  good  for  the  mean  person  who  objected  to  it. 

The  former  occupants  of  the  kitchen  now  withdrew  into 
the  parlour.  Before  Hortense  followed  them  thither, 
Caroline  had  only  time  again  to  question,  '  Not  my  enemy, 
Robert  ?  '  And  Moore,  quaker-like,  had  replied  with  another 
query,  '  Could  I  be  ?  '  and  then,  seating  himself  at  the  table, 
had  settled  Caroline  at  his  side. 

Caroline  scarcely  heard  Mademoiselle's  explosion  of 
wrath  when  she  rejoined  them  ;  the  long  declamation  about 
the  '  conduite  indigne  de  cette  m6chante  creature,"  sounded 
in  her  ear  as  confusedly  as  the  agitated  rattling  of  the  china. 
Eobert  laughed  a  little  at  it,  in  very  subdued  sort,  and  then, 
politely  and  calmly  entreating  his  sister  to  be  tranquil, 
assured  her  that  if  it  would  yield  her  any  satisfaction,  she 
should  have  her  choice  of  an  attendant  amongst  all  the  girls 
in  his  mill ;  only  he  feared  they  would  scarcely  suit  her,  as 
they  were  most  of  them,  he  was  informed,  completely 
ignorant  of  household  work :  and  pert  and  self-willed  as 
Sarah  was,  she  was,  perhaps,  no  worse  than  the  majority  of 
the  women  of  her  class. 

Mademoiselle  admitted  the  truth  of  this  conjecture : 
according  to  her,  '  ces  paysannes  Anglaises  6taient  tout  in- 
supportables.'  What  would  she  not  give  for  some  '  bonne 
cuisinere  Anversoise,'  with  the  high  cap,  short  petticoat, 
and  decent  sabots  proper  to  her  class :  something  better, 
indeed,  than  an  insolent  coquette  in  a  flounced  gown,  and 
absolutely  without  cap  !  (for  Sarah,  it  appears,  did  not  par- 
take the  opinion  of  St.  Paul,  that  '  it  is  a  shame  for  a  woman 
to  go  with  her  head  uncovered ;  '  but,  holding  rather  a 
contrary  doctrine,  resolutely  refused  to  imprison  in  linen  or 
mublin  the  plentiful  tie.s-.es  of  her  yellow  hair,  which  it  was 


88  SHIELEY 

her  wont  to  fasten  up  smartly  with  a  comb  behind,  and  on 
Sundays  to  wear  curled  in  front). 

'  Shall  I  try  and  get  you  an  Antwerp  girl  ?  '  asked  Mr. 
Moore,  who — stern  in  public  —was  on  the  whole  very  kind 
in  private. 

'  Merci  du  cadeau ! '  was  the  answer.  '  An  Antwerp  girl 
would  not  stay  here  ten  days,  sneered  at  as  she  would  be  by 
all  the  young  coquines  in  your  factory ; '  then  softening, 
'  You  are  very  good,  dear  brother — excuse  my  petulance — 
but,  truly  my  domestic  trials  are  severe,  yet  they  are  pro- 
bably my  destiny ;  for  I  recollect  that  our  revered  mother 
experienced  similar  sufferings,  though  she  had  the  choice  of 
all  the  best  servants  in  Antwerp ;  domestics  are  in  all  countries 
a  spoiled  and  unruly  set.' 

Mr.  Moore  had  also  certain  reminiscences  about  the 
trials  of  his  revered  mother.  A  good  mother  she  had  been 
to  him,  and  he  honoured  her  memory,  but  he  recollected 
that  she  kept  a  hot  kitchen  of  it  in  Antwerp,  just  as  his 
faithful  sister  did  here  in  England.  Thus,  therefore, 
he  let  the  subject  drop,  and  when  the  coffee  service  was 
removed,  proceeded  to  console  Hortense  by  fetching  her 
music-book  and  guitar ;  and  having  arranged  the  ribbon  of 
the  instrument  round  her  neck  with  a  quiet  fraternal  kindness 
he  knew  to  be  all-powerful  in  soothing  her  most  ruffled 
moods,  he  asked  her  to  give  him  some  of  their  mother's 
favourite  songs. 

Nothing  refines  like  affection.  Family  jarring  vulgarizes 
— family  union  elevates.  Hortense,  pleased  with  her  brother, 
and  grateful  to  him,  looked,  as  she  touched  her  guitar,  almost 
graceful,  almost  handsome  ;  her  every-day  fretful  look  waa 
gone  for  a  moment,  and  was  replaced  by  a  '  sourire  plein  de 
bonteV  She  sang  the  songs  he  asked  for,  with  feeling ;  they 
reminded  her  of  a  parent  to  whom  she  had  been  truly 
attached ;  they  reminded  her  of  her  young  days.  She 
observed,  too,  that  Caroline  listened  with  naive  interest ; 
this  augmented  her  good-humour ;  and  the  exclamation  at 
the  close  of  the  song,  '  I  wish  I  could  sing  and  play  like 


COEIOLANUS  89 

Hortense ! '  achieved  the  business,  and  rendered  her  charm- 
ing for  the  evening. 

It  is  true,  a  little  lecture  to  Caroline  followed,  on  the 
vanity  of  wishing  and  the  duty  of  trying.  '  As  Rome,'  it 
was  suggested,  '  had  not  been  built  in  a  day,  so  neither  had 
Mademoiselle  G6rard  Moore's  education  been  completed  in  a 
week,  or  by  merely  wishing  to  be  clever.  It  was  effort  that 
had  accomplished  that  great  work  :  she  was  ever  remarkable 
for  her  perseverance,  for  her  industry;  her  masters  had 
remarked  that  it  was  as  delightful  as  it  was  uncommon  to 
find  so  much  talent  united  with  so  much  solidity,  and  so 
on.'  Once  on  the  theme  of  her  own  merits,  Mademoiselle 
was  fluent. 

Cradled  at  last  in  blissful  self-complacency,  she  took  her 
knitting,  and  sat  down  tranquil.  Drawn  curtains,  a  clear 
fire,  a  softly  shining  lamp,  gave  now  to  the  little  parlour  its 
best — its  evening  charm.  It  is  probable  that  the  three  there 
present  felt  this  charm  :  they  all  looked  happy. 

'  What  shall  we  do  now,  Caroline  ? '  asked  Mr.  Moore, 
returning  to  his  seat  beside  his  cousin. 

'  What  shall  we  do,  Robert  ? '  repeated  she  playfully. 
'  You  decide.' 

'  Not  play  at  chess  ? ' 

'No.' 

1  Nor  draughts,  nor  backgammon  ?  ' 

'  No — no  ;  we  both  hate  silent  games  that  only  keep  one's 
hands  employed,  don't  we  ?  ' 

'  I  believe  we  do  ;  then,  shall  we  talk  scandal  ? ' 

'  About  whom  ?  Are  we  sufficiently  interested  in  any- 
body to  take  a  pleasure  in  pulling  their  character  to  pieces  ?  ' 

'  A  question  that  cornos  to  the  point.  For  my  part — 
unamiable  as  it  sounds— I  must  say,  no.' 

'  And  I,  too.  But  it  is  strange — though  we  want  no 
third — fourth,  I  mean  (she  hastily  and  with  contrition 
glanced  at  Hortense),  living  person  among  us — so  selfish 
we  are  in  our  happiness — though  we  don't  want  to  think  of 
the  present  existing  world,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  go  back 


90  SHIRLEY 

to  the  past ;  to  hear  people  that  have  slept  for  generations 
in  graves  that  are  perhaps  no  longer  graves  now,  but  gardens 
and  fields,  speak  to  us  and  tell  us  their  thoughts,  and  impart 
their  ideas.' 

'  Who  shall  be  the  speaker  ?  What  language  shall  he 
utter?  French?' 

'  Your  French  forefathers  don't  speak  so  sweetly,  nor  so 
solemnly,  nor  so  impressively  as  your  English  ancestors, 
Eobert.  To-night  you  shall  be  entirely  English  :  you  shall 
read  an  English  book.' 

'  An  old  English  book  ? ' 

1  Yes,  an  old  English  book,  one  that  you  like ;  and  I  will 
choose  a  part  of  it  that  is  toned  quite  in  harmony  with  some- 
thing in  you.  It  shall  waken  your  nature,  fill  your  mind 
with  music  ;  it  shall  pass  like  a  skilful  hand  over  your  heart, 
and  make  its  strings  sound.  Your  heart  is  a  lyre,  Eobert ; 
but  the  lot  of  your  life  has  not  been  a  minstrel  to  sweep  it, 
and  it  is  often  silent.  Let  glorious  William  come  near  and 
touch  it :  you  will  see  how  he  will  draw  the  English  power 
and  melody  out  of  its  chords.' 

'  I  must  read  Shakspeare  ? ' 

'  You  must  have  his  spirit  before  you  :  you  must  ear  his 
voice  with  your  mind's  ear ;  you  must  take  some  of  his  soul 
into  yours.' 

'  With  a  view  to  making  me  better  ;  is  it  to  operate  like  a 
sermon  ? ' 

'  It  is  to  stir  you  ;  to  give  you  new  sensations.  It  is  to 
make  you  feel  your  life  strongly,  not  only  your  virtues,  but 
your  vicious,  perverse  points.' 

'  Dieu  !  que  dit-elle  ? '  cried  Hortense,  who  hitherto  had 
been  counting  stitches  in  her  knitting,  and  had  not  much 
attended  to  what  was  said,  but  whose  ear  these  two  strong 
woi'ds  caught  with  a  tweak. 

'  Never  mind  her,  sister :  let  her  talk  ;  now  just  let  her 
say  anything  she  pleases  to-night.  She  likes  to  come  down 
hard  upon  your  brother  sometimes  ;  it  amuses  me,  so  let  her 
alone.' 


COEIOLANUS  91 

Caroline,  who,  mounted  on  a  chair,  had  been  rummaging 
the  book-case,  returned  with  a  book. 

1  Here's  Shakspeare,'  she  said,  '  and  there's  Coriolanus. 
Now  read,  and  discover  by  the  feelings  the  reading  will  give 
you  at  once  how  low  and  how  high  you  are.' 

'  Come  then,  sit  near  me,  and  correct  when  I  mispro- 
nounce.' 

'  I  am  to  be  the  teacher  then,  and  you  my  pupil  ? ' 

'  Ainsi  soit-il ! ' 

'  And  Shakspeare  is  our  science,  since  we  are  going  to 
study  ? ' 

'  It  appears  so.' 

1  And  you  are  not  going  to  be  French,  and  sceptical,  and 
sneering  ?  You  are  not  going  to  think  it  a  sign  of  wisdom  to 
refuse  to  admire  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

1  If  you  do,  Eobert,  I'll  take  Shakspeare  away ;  and  I'll 
shrivel  up  within  myself,  and  put  on  my  bonnet  and  go 
home.' 

1  Sit  down  ;  here  I  begin.' 

'  One  minute,  if  you  please,  brother,'  interrupted  Made- 
moiselle :  '  when  the  gentleman  of  a  family  reads,  the  ladies 
should  always  sow.  Caroline,  dear  child,  take  your  embroidery ; 
you  may  get  three  sprigs  done  to-night.' 

Caroline  looked  dismayed.  '  I  can't  see  by  lamp-light ; 
my  eyes  are  tired,  and  I  can't  do  two  things  well  at  once. 
If  I  sew,  I  cannot  listen ;  if  I  listen,  I  cannot  sew.' 

1  Fi,  done  !  Quel  enfantillage  !  '  began  Hortense.  Mr. 
Moore,  as  usual,  suavely  interposed. 

'  Permit  her  to  neglect  the  embroidery  for  this  evening. 
I  wish  her  whole  attention  to  be  fixed  on  my  accent,  and  to 
ensure  this,  she  must  follow  the  reading  with  her  eyes ;  she 
must  look  at  the  book.' 

He  placed  it  between  them,  reposed  his  arm  on  the  back 
of  Caroline's  chair,  and  thus  began  to  read. 

The  very  first  scene  in  '  Coriolanus '  came  with  smart 
relish  to  his  intellectual  palate,  and  still  as  he  read  he 


92  SHIBLEY 

warmed.  He  delivered  the  haughty  speech  of  Caius  Marcius 
to  the  starving  citizens  with  unction ;  he  did  not  say  he 
thought  his  irrational  pride  right,  but  he  seemed  to  feel  it  so. 
Caroline  looked  up  at  him  with  a  singular  smile. 

'  There's  a  vicious  point  hit  already,1  she  said ;  '  you 
sympathize  with  that  proud  patrician  who  does  not  sym- 
pathize with  his  famished  fellow-men,  and  insults  them  : 
there,  go  on.'  He  proceeded.  The  warlike  portions  did  not 
rouse  him  much ;  he  said  all  that  was  out  of  date,  or  should 
be ;  the  spirit  displayed  was  barbarous,  yet  the  encounter 
single-handed  between  Marcius  and  Tullus  Aufidius,  he 
delighted  in.  As  he  advanced,  he  forgot  to  criticise ;  it  was 
evident  he  appreciated  the  power,  the  truth  of  each  portion  ; 
and,  stepping  out  of  the  narrow  line  of  private  prejudices, 
began  to  revel  in  the  large  picture  of  human  nature,  to  feel 
the  reality  stamped  upon  the  characters  who  were  speaking 
from  that  page  before  him. 

He  did  not  read  the  comic  scenes  well,  and  Caroline, 
taking  the  book  out  of  his  hand,  read  these  parts  for  him. 
From  her  he  seemed  to  enjoy  them,  and  indeed  she  gave 
them  with  a  spirit  no  one  could  have  expected  of  her,  with  a 
pithy  expression  with  which  she  seemed  gifted  on  the  spot,  and 
for  that  brief  moment  only.  It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing, 
that  the  general  character  of  her  conversation  that  evening, 
whether  serious  or  sprightly,  gi*ave  or  gay,  was  as  of  some- 
thing untaught,  unstudied,  intuitive,  fitful ;  when  once  gone, 
no  more  to  be  reproduced  as  it  had  been,  than  the  glancing 
ray  of  the  meteor,  than  the  tints  of  the  dew-gem,  than  the 
colour  or  form  of  the  sun-set  cloud,  than  the  fleeting  and 
glittering  ripple  varying  the  flow  of  a  rivulet. 

Coriolanus  in  glory  ;  Coriolanus  in  disaster  ;  Coriolanus 
banished,  followed  like  giant-shades  one  after  the  other. 
Before  the  vision  of  the  banished  man,  Moore's  spirit  seemed 
to  pause.  He  stood  on  the  hearth  of  Aufidius's  hall,  facing 
the  image  of  greatness  fallen,  but  greater  than  ever  in  that 
low  estate.  He  saw  '  the  grim  appearance,'  the  dark  face 
1  bearing  command  in  it,'  '  the  noble  vessel  with  its  tackle 


COEIOLANUS  93 

torn.'  With  the  revenge  of  Caius  Marcius,  Moore  perfectly 
sympathized ;  he  was  not  scandalized  by  it ;  and  again 
Caroline  whispered,  '  There  I  see  another  glimpse  of  brother- 
hood in  error.' 

The  march  on  Rome,  the  mother's  supplication,  the  long 
resistance,  the  final  yielding  of  bad  passions  to  good,  which 
ever  must  be  the  case  in  a  nature  worthy  the  epithet  of  noble, 
the  rage  of  Aufidius  at  what  he  considered  his  ally's  weak- 
ness, the  death  of  Coriolanus,  the  final  sorrow  of  his  great 
enemy ;  all  scenes  made  of  condensed  truth  and  strength,  came 
on  in  succession,  and  earned  with  them  in  their  deep,  fast 
flow,  the  heart  and  mind  of  reader  and  listener. 

'  Now,  have  you  felt  Shakspeare  ? '  asked  Caroline,  some 
ten  minutes  after  her  cousin  had  closed  the  book. 
'  I  think  so.' 

'  And  have  you  felt  anything  in  Coriolanus  like  you  ? ' 
'  Perhaps  I  have.' 

1  Was  he  not  faulty  as  well  as  great  ? ' 
Moore  nodded. 

'  And  what  was  his  fault  ?  What  made  him  hated  by  the 
citizens  ?  What  caused  him  to  be  banished  by  his  country- 
men?' 

'  What  do  you  think  it  was  ?  ' 
'  I  ask  again — 

Whether  'twas  pride, 
Which  out  of  daily  fortune  ever  taints 
The  happy  man  ?  whether  defect  of  judgment, 
To  fail  in  the  disposing  of  those  chances 
Which  he  was  lord  of  ?  or  whether  nature, 
Not  to  be  other  than  one  thing,  not  moving 
From  the  casque  to  the  cushion,  but  commanding  peace 
Even  with  the  same  austerity  and  garb 
As  he  controlled  the  war  ? ' 

'  Well,  answer  yourself,  Sphinx.' 

'  It  was  a  spice  of  all :  and  you  must  not  be  proud  to 
your  workpeople ;  you  must  not  neglect  chances  of  soothing 
them,  and  you  must  not  be  of  an  inflexible  nature,  uttering 
a  request  as  austerely  as  if  it  were  a  command.' 


94  SHIRLEY 

'  That  is  the  moral  you  tack  to  the  play.  What  puts  such 
notions  into  your  head  ? ' 

'  A  wish  for  your  good,  a  care  for  your  safety,  dear  Robert, 
and  a  fear  caused  by  many  things  which  I  have  heard  lately, 
that  you  will  come  to  harm.' 

1  Who  tells  you  these  things  ?  ' 

'  I  hear  my  uncle  talk  about  you  :  he  praises  your  hard 
spirit,  your  determined  cast  of  mind,  your  scorn  of  low 
enemies,  your  resolution  not  "  to  truckle  to  the  mob,"  as  he 
says.' 

'  And  would  you  have  me  truckle  to  them  ? 

'No,  not  for  the  world  :  I  never  wish  you  to  lower  your- 
self ;  but  somehow,  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  unjust  to  include 
all  poor  working  people  under  the  general  and  insulting 
name  of  "the  mob,"  and  continually  to  think  of  them  and 
treat  them  haughtily.' 

'  You  are  a  little  democrat,  Caroline  :  if  your  uncle  knew, 
what  would  he  say  ?  ' 

'  I  rarely  talk  to  my  uncle,  as  you  know,  and  never 
about  such  things  :  he  thinks  everything  but  sewing  and 
cooking  above  women's  comprehension,  and  out  of  their 
line.' 

'  And  do  you  fancy  you  comprehend  the  subjects  on 
which  you  advise  me  ?  ' 

'  As  far  as  they  concern  you,  I  comprehend  them.  I  know 
it  would  be  better  for  you  to  be  loved  by  your  workpeople  than 
to  be  hated  by  them,  and  I  am  sure  that  kindness  is  more  likely 
to  win  their  regard  than  pride.  If  you  were  proud  and  cold 
to  me  and  Hortensc,  should  we  love  you  ?  When  you  are 
cold  to  me,  as  you  are  sometimes,  can  I  venture  to  be  affec 
tionate  in  return  ?  ' 

'  Now,  Lina,  I've  had  my  lesson  both  in  languages  and 
ethics,  with  a  touch  on  politics ;  it  is  your  turn.  Hortense 
tells  me  you  were  much  taken  by  a  little  piece  of  poetry  you 
learned  the,  other  day,  a  piece  by  poor  Andre"  Che'nier — "  La 
Jeune  Captive  ;  "  do  you  remember  it  still?  ' 

'  I  think  so.' 


COEIOLANUS  95 

'  Eepeat  it,  then.  Take  your  time  and  mind  your  accent ; 
especially  let's  have  no  English  u's.' 

Caroline,  beginning  in  a  low,  rather  tremulous  voice,  but 
gaining  courage  as  she  proceeded,  repeated  the  sweet  verses 
of  Ch6nier ;  the  last  three  stanzas  she  rehearsed  well : 

Mon  beau  voyage  encore  est  si  loin  de  sa  fin  1 
Je  pars,  et  des  ormeaux  qui  bordent  le  chemin 

J'ai  passe  les  premiers  &  peine. 
Au  banquet  de  la  vie  a  peine  commence^ 
Un  instant  seulement  mes  levres  ont  press6 

La  coupe  en  mes  mains  encor  pleine. 

Je  ne  suis  qu'au  printemps — je  veux  voir  la  moisson  ; 
Et  comme  le  soleil,  de  saison  en  saison, 

Je  veux  achever  mon  annee. 
Brillante  sur  ma  tige  et  1'honneur  du  jardin, 
Je  n'ai  vu  luire  encor  que  les  feux  du  matin — 

Je  veux  achever  ma  journ6e  1 

Moore  listened  at  first  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  but  soon 
he  furtively  raised  them  :  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  could 
watch  Caroline  without  her  perceiving  where  his  gaze  was 
fixed.  Her  cheek  had  a  colour,  her  eyes  a  light,  her  counten- 
ance an  expression,  this  evening,  which  would  have  made  even 
plain  features  striking  ;  but  there  was  not  the  grievous  defect 
of  plainness  to  pardon  in  her  case.  The  sunshine  was  not 
shed  on  rough  barrenness ;  it  fell  on  soft  bloom.  Each  linea- 
ment was  turned  with  grace  ;  the  whole  aspect  was  pleasing. 
At  the  present  moment— animated,  interested,  touched — she 
might  be  called  beautiful.  Such  a  face  was  calculated  to 
awaken  not  only  the  calm  sentiment  of  esteem,  the  distant 
one  of  admiration  ;  but  some  feeling  more  tender,  genial, 
intimate  :  friendship,  perhaps — affection,  interest.  When 
she  had  finished,  she  turned  to  Moore  and  met  his  eye. 

'  Is  that  pretty  well  repeated  ? '  she  inquired,  smiling  like 
any  happy,  docile  child. 

'  I  really  don't  know.' 

'  Why  don't  you  know  ?     Have  you  not  listened  ?  ' 


96  SHIBLEY 

'  Yes — and  looked.     You  are  fond  of  poetry,  Lina  ? ' 

'  When  I  meet  with  real  poetry,  I  cannot  rest  till  I  have 
learned  it  by  heart,  and  so  made  it  partly  mine.' 

Mr.  Moore  now  sat  silent  for  several  minutes.  It  struck 
nine  o'clock :  Sarah  entered,  and  said  that  Mr.  Helstone's 
servant  was  come  for  Miss  Caroline. 

'  Then  the  evening  is  gone  already,'  she  observed  ;  '  and 
it  will  be  long,  I  suppose,  before  I  pass  another  here.' 

Hortense  had  been  for  some  time  nodding  over  her 
knitting  ;  falling  into  a  doze  now,  she  made  no  response  to 
the  remark. 

'  You  would  have  no  objection  to  come  here  oftener  of  an 
evening  ?  '  inquired  Robert,  as  he  took  her  folded  mantle  from 
the  side-table,  whei*e  it  still  lay,  and  carefully  wrapped  it 
round  her. 

'  I  like  to  come  here  :  but  I  have  no  desire  to  be  intrusive. 
I  am  not  hinting  to  be  asked  :  you  must  understand  that.' 

'  Oh  !  I  understand  thee,  child.  You  sometimes  lecture 
me  for  wishing  to  be  rich,  Lina ;  but  if  I  were  rich,  you 
should  live  here  always :  at  any  rate,  you  should  live  with 
me  wherever  my  habitation  might  be.' 

1  That  would  be  pleasant ;  and  if  you  were  poor — ever  so 
poor — it  would  still  be  pleasant.  Good-night,  Robert.' 

'  I  promised  to  walk  with  you  up  to  the  Rectory.' 

'  I  know  you  did ;  but  I  thought  you  had  forgotten,  and 
I  hardly  knew  how  to  remind  you,  though  I  wished  to  do  it. 
But  would  you  like  to  go  ?  It  is  a  cold  night ;  and,  as  Fanny 
is  come,  there  is  no  necessity ' 

'  Here  is  your  muff — don't  wake  Hortense — come.' 

The  half-mile  to  the  Rectory  was  soon  traversed.  They 
parted  in  the  garden  without  kiss,  scarcely  with  a  pressure 
of  hands  :  yet  Robert  sent  his  cousin  in  excited  and  joyously 
troubled.  He  had  been  singularly  kind  to  her  that  day  :  not 
in  phrase,  compliment,  profession  ;  but  in  manner,  in  look, 
and  in  soft  and  friendly  tones. 

For  himself  he  came  home  grave,  almost  morose.  As  he 
stood  leaning  on  his  own  yard-gate,  musing  in  the  watery 


COKIOLANUS  97 

moonlight,  all  alone — the  hushed,  dark  mill  before  him,  the 
hill-environed  hollow  round — he  exclaimed,  abruptly  :  '  This 
won't  do  !  There's  weakness — there's  downright  ruin  in  all 
this.  However,'  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  '  the  frenzy 
is  quite  temporary.  I  know  it  very  well :  I  have  had  it 
before.  It  will  be  gone  to-morrow.' 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   CURATES   AT   TEA 

CAROLINE  HELSTONE  was  just  eighteen  years  old ;  and  at 
eighteen  the  true  narrative  of  life  is  yet  to  be  commenced. 
Before  that  time  we  sit  listening  to  a  tale,  a  marvellous 
fiction ;  delightful  sometimes,  and  sad  sometimes ;  almost 
always  unreal.  Before  that  time,  our  world  is  heroic ;  its 
inhabitants  half-divine  or  semi-demon  ;  its  scenes  are  dream 
scenes :  darker  woods  and  stranger  hills  ;  brighter  skies, 
more  dangerous  waters ;  sweeter  flowers,  more  tempting 
fruits  ;  wider  plains,  drearier  deserts,  sunnier  fields  than  are 
found  in  nature,  overspread  our  enchanted  globe.  What  a 
moon  we  gaze  on  before  that  time  !  How  the  trembling  of 
our  hearts  at  her  aspect  bears  witness  to  its  unutterable 
beauty  !  As  to  our  sun,  it  is  a  burning  heaven — the  world 
of  gods. 

At  that  time — at  eighteen,  drawing  near  the  confines  of 
illusive,  void  dreams,  Elf-land  lies  behind  us,  the  shores  of 
Reality  rise  in  front.  These  shores  are  yet  distant :  they 
look  so  blue,  soft,  gentle,  we  long  to  reach  them.  In  sun- 
shine we  see  a  greenness  beneath  the  azure,  as  of  spring 
meadows  ;  we  catch  glimpses  of  silver  lines,  and  imagine 
the  roll  of  living  waters.  Could  we  but  reach  this  land,  we 
think  to  hunger  and  thirst  no  more ;  whereas  many  a 
wilderness,  and  often  the  flood  of  Death,  or  some  stream  of 
sorrow  as  cold  and  almost  as  black  as  Death,  is  to  be  crossed 
ere  true  bliss  can  be  tasted.  Every  joy  that  life  gives  must 
be  earned  ere  it  is  secured  ;  and  how  hardly  earned,  those 


THE  CURATES  AT   TEA  99 

only  know  who  have  wrestled  for  great  prizes.  The  heart's 
blood  must  gem  with  red  beads  the  brow  of  the  combatant, 
before  the  wreath  of  victory  rustles  over  it. 

At  eighteen,  we  are  not  aware  of  this.  Hope,  when  she 
smiles  on  us,  and  promises  happiness  to-morrow,  is  implicitly 
believed  ; — Love,  when  he  comes  wandering  like  a  lost  angel 
to  our  door,  is  at  once  admitted,  welcomed,  embraced  :  his 
quiver  is  not  seen ;  if  his  arrows  penetrate,  their  wound  is 
like  a  thrill  of  new  life  :  there  are  no  fears  of  poison,  none 
of  the  barb  which  no  leech's  hand  can  extract :  that  perilous 
passion — an  agony  ever  in  some  of  its  phases  ;  with  many, 
an  agony  throughout — is  believed  to  be  an  unqualified  good  : 
in  short,  at  eighteen,  the  school  of  Experience  is  to  be 
entered,  and  her  humbling,  crushing,  grinding,  but  yet 
purifying  and  invigorating  lessons  are  yet  to  be  learnt. 

Alas,  Experience  !  No  other  mentor  has  so  wasted  and 
frozen  a  face  as  yours :  none  wears  a  robe  so  black,  none 
bears  a  rod  so  heavy,  none  with  hand  so  inexorable  draws 
the  novice  so  sternly  to  his  task,  and  forces  him  with 
authority  so  resistless  to  its  acquirement.  It  is  by  your 
instructions  alone  that  man  or  woman  can  ever  find  a  safe 
track  through  life's  wilds :  without  it,  how  they  stumble, 
how  they  stray !  On  what  forbidden  grounds  do  they 
intrude,  down  what  dread  declivities  are  they  hurled  ! 

Caroline,  having  been  convoyed  home  by  Robert,  had  no 
wish  to  pass  what  remained  of  the  evening  with  her  uncle  : 
the  room  in  which  he  sat  was  very  sacred  ground  to  her  ; 
she  seldom  intruded  on  it,  and  to-night  she  kept  aloof  till 
the  bell  rang  for  prayers.  Part  of  the  evening  church 
service  was  the  form  of  worship  observed  in  Mr.  Helstone's 
household  :  he  read  it  in  his  usual  nasal  voice,  clear,  loud, 
and  monotonous.  The  rite  over,  his  niece,  according  to  her 
wont,  stepped  up  to  him. 

'  Good-night,  uncle.' 

'  Hey !  You've  been  gadding  abroad  all  day — visiting, 
dining  out,  and  what  not ! ' 

'  Only  at  the  cottage.' 


100  SHIELEY 

'  And  have  you  learnt  your  lessons  ?  ' 

'Yes.' 

1  And  made  a  shirt  ?  ' 

'  Only  part  of  one.' 

'  Well,  that  will  do :  stick  to  the  needle — learn  shirt- 
making  and  gown-making,  and  pie-crust-making,  and  you'll 
be  a  clever  woman  some  day.  Go  to  bed  now ;  I'm  busy 
with  a  pamphlet  here.' 

Presently  the  niece  was  enclosed  in  her  small  bed-room  ; 
the  door  bolted,  her  white  dressing-gown  assumed,  her 
long  hair  loosened  and  falling  thick,  soft,  and  wavy  to  her 
waist ;  and  as,  resting  from  the  task  of  combing  it  out,  she 
leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
carpet,  before  her  rose,  and  close  around  her  drew,  the 
visions  we  see  at  eighteen  years. 

Her  thoughts  were  speaking  with  her :  speaking 
pleasantly,  as  it  seemed,  for  she  smiled  as  she  listened.  She 
looked  pretty,  meditating  thus :  but  a  brighter  thing  than 
she  was  in  that  apartment — the  spirit  of  youthful  Hope. 
According  to  this  flattering  prophet,  she  was  to  know  disap- 
pointment, to  feel  chill  no  more  :  she  had  entered  on  the 
dawn  of  a  summer  day — no  false  dawn,  but  the  true  spring 
of  morning — and  her  sun  would  quickly  rise.  Impossible 
for  her  now  to  suspect  that  she  was  the  sport  of  delusion  : 
her  expectations  seemed  warranted,  the  foundation  on  which 
they  rested  appeared  solid. 

'  When  people  love,  the  next  step  is  they  marry,'  was 
her  argument.  '  Now,  I  love  Robert,  and  I  feel  sure  that 
Bobert  loves  me  :  I  have  thought  so  many  a  time  before  ; 
to-day  I  felt  it.  When  I  looked  up  at  him  after  repeating 
Chenier's  poem,  his  eyes  (what  handsome  eyes  he  has  !)  sent 
the  truth  through  my  heart.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid  to 
speak  to  him,  lest  I  should  be  too  frank,  lest  I  should  seem 
forward :  for  I  have  more  than  once  regretted  bitterly, 
overflowing,  superfluous  words,  and  feared  I  had  said  more 
than  he  expected  me  to  say,  and  that  he  would  disapprove 
what  he  might  deem  my  indiscretion  ;  now,  to-night,  I  could 


THE  CUKATES  AT  TEA  101 

have  ventured  to  express  any  thought,  he  was  so  indulgent. 
How  kind  he  was,  as  we  walked  up  the  lane  !  He  does  not 
flatter  or  say  foolish  things  ;  his  love-making  (friendship,  I 
mean :  of  course  I  don't  yet  account  him  my  lover,  hut  I 
hope  he  will  be  so  some  day)  is  not  like  what  we  read  of  in 
books — it  is  far  better — original,  quiet,  manly,  sincere.  I  do 
like  him  :  I  would  be  an  excellent  wife  to  him  if  he  did 
marry  me  :  I  would  tell  him  of  his  faults  (for  he  has  a  few 
faults),  but  I  would  study  his  comfort,  and  cherish  him,  and 
do  my  best  to  make  him  happy.  Now,  I  am  sure  he  will 
not  be  cold  to-morrow  :  I  feel  almost  certain  that  to-morrow 
evening  he  will  either  come  here,  or  ask  me  to  go  there.' 

She  recommenced  combing  her  hair,  long  as  a  mermaid's  ; 
turning  her  head,  as  she  arranged  it,  she  saw  her  own  facv 
and  form  in  the  glass.  Such  reflections  are  soberizing  to 
plain  people :  their  own  eyes  are  not  enchanted  with  the 
image ;  they  are  confident  then  that  the  eyes  of  others  can 
see  in  it  no  fascination ;  but  the  fair  must  naturally  draw 
other  conclusions  :  the  picture  is  charming,  and  must  charm. 
Caroline  saw  a  shape,  a  head  that,  daguerreotyped  in  that 
attitude  and  with  that  expression,  would  have  been  lovely : 
she  could  not  choose  but  derive  from  the  spectacle  confirma- 
tion to  her  hopes :  it  was  then  in  undiminished  gladness  she 
sought  her  couch. 

And  in  undiminished  gladness  she  rose  the  next  day :  as 
she  entered  her  uncle's  breakfast-room,  and  with  soft  cheer- 
fulness wished  him  good  morning,  even  that  little  man  of 
bronze  himself  thought,  for  an  instant,  his  niece  was  growing 
'  a  fine  girl.'  Generally  she  was  quiet  and  timid  with  him  : 
very  docile,  but  not  communicative  ;  this  morning,  however, 
she  found  many  things  to  say.  Slight  topics  alone  might 
be  discussed  between  them ;  for  with  a  woman — a  girl — 
Mr.  Helstone  would  touch  on  no  other.  She  had  taken  an 
early  walk  in  the  garden,  and  she  told  him  what  flowers 
were  beginning  to  spring  there ;  she  inquired  when  the 
gardener  was  to  come  and  trim  the  borders ;  she  informed 
him  that  certain  starlings  were  beginning  '.o  build  their 


102  SHIELEY 

nests  in  the  church-tower  (Briarfield  church  was  close  to 
Briarfield  rectory) ;  she  wondered  the  tolling  of  the  bells  in 
the  belfry  did  not  scare  them. 

Mr.  Helstone  opined  that '  they  were  like  other  fools  who 
had  just  paired ;  insensible  to  inconvenience  just  for  the 
moment.'  Caroline,  made  perhaps  a  little  too  courageous 
by  her  temporary  good  spirits,  here  hazarded  a  i*emark  of  a 
kind  she  had  never  before  ventured  to  make  on  observations 
dropped  by  her  revered  relative. 

'  Uncle,'  said  she,  '  whenever  you  speak  of  marriage,  you 
speak  of  it  scornfully :  do  you  think  people  shouldn't 
marry  ? ' 

1  It  is  decidedly  the  wisest  plan  to  remain  single,  especially 
for  women.' 

'  Are  all  marriages  unhappy  ?  ' 

1  Millions  of  marriages  are  unhappy :  if  everybody  con- 
fessed the  truth,  perhaps  all  are  more  or  less  so.' 

'  You  are  always  vexed  when  you  are  asked  to  come  and 
marry  a  couple — why  ? ' 

'  Because  one  does  not  like  to  act  as  accessory  to  the 
commission  of  a  piece  of  pure  folly.' 

Mr.  Helstone  spoke  so  readily,  he  seemed  rather  glad  of 
the  opportunity  to  give  his  niece  a  piece  of  his  mind  on  this 
point.  Emboldened  by  the  impunity  which  had  hitherto 
attended  her  questions,  she  went  a  little  further. 

'  But  why,'  said  she,  '  should  it  be  pure  folly  ?  If  two 
people  like  each  other,  why  shouldn't  they  consent  to  live 
together  ? ' 

'  They  tire  of  each  other — they  tire  of  each  other  in  a 
month.  A  yokefellow  is  not  a  companion  ;  he  or  she  is  a 
fellow-sufferer.' 

It  was  by  no  means  nai've  simplicity  which  inspired 
Caroline's  next  remark  :  it  was  a  sense  of  antipathy  to  such 
opinions,  and  of  displeasure  at  him  who  held  them. 

'  One  would  think  you  had  never  been  married,  uncle : 
one  would  think  you  were  an  old  bachelor.' 

'  Practically,  I  am  so.' 


THE  CURATES  AT  TEA  103 

'  But  you  have  been  married.  Why  were  you  so  incon- 
sistent as  to  marry  ?  ' 

'  Every  man  is  mad  once  or  twice  in  his  life.1 

1  So  you  tired  of  my  aunt,  and  my  aunt  of  you,  and  you 
were  miserable  together  ? ' 

Mr.  Helstone  pushed  out  his  cynical  lip,  wrinkled  his 
brown  forehead,  and  gave  an  inarticulate  grunt. 

'  Did  she  not  suit  you  ?  Was  she  not  good-tempered  ? 
Did  you  not  get  used  to  her  ?  Were  you  not  sorry  when  she 
died ! ' 

4  Caroline,'  said  Mr.  Helstone,  bringing  his  hand  slowly 
down  to  within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  table,  and  then  smiting 
it  suddenly  on  the  mahogany,  '  understand  this  :  it  is  vulgar 
and  puerile  to  confound  generals  with  particulars  :  in  every 
case,  there  is  the  rule,  and  there  are  the  exceptions.  Your 
questions  are  stupid  and  babyish.  Ring  the  bell,  if  you  have 
done  breakfast.' 

The  breakfast  was  taken  away,  and  that  meal  over,  it  was 
the  general  custom  of  uncle  and  niece  to  separate,  and  not 
to  meet  again  till  dinner  ;  but  to-day  the  niece,  instead  of 
quitting  the  room,  went  to  the  window-seat,  and  sat  down 
there.  Mr.  Helstone  looked  round  uneasily  once  or  twice, 
as  if  he  wished  her  away,  but  she  was  gazing  from  the  window, 
and  did  not  seem  to  mind  him ;  so  he  continued  the  perusal 
of  his  morning  paper — a  particularly  interesting  one  it 
chanced  to  be,  as  new  movements  had  just  taken  place  in 
the  Peninsula,  and  certain  columns  of  the  journal  were  rich 
in  long  despatches  from  General  Lord  Wellington.  He  little 
knew,  meantime,  what  thoughts  were  busy  in  his  niece's 
mind — thoughts  the  conversation  of  the  past  half-hour  had 
revived,  but  not  generated  ;  tumultuous  were  they  now,  as 
disturbed  bees  in  a  hive,  but  it  was  years  since  they  had  first 
made  their  cells  in  her  brain. 

She  was  reviewing  his  character,  bis  disposition,  repeat- 
ing his  sentiments  on  marriage.  Many  a  time  had  she 
reviewed  them  before,  and  sounded  the  gulf  between  her  own 
mind  and  his  ;  and  then,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wide  and 


104  SHIRLEY 

deep  chasm,  she  had  seen,  and  she  now  saw,  another  figure 
standing  beside  her  uncle's — a  strange  shape  :  dim,  sinister, 
scarcely  earthly ;  the  half-remembered  image  of  her  own 
father,  James  Helstone,  Matthewson  Helstone's  brother. 

Eumours  had  reached  her  ear  of  what  that  father's 
character  was ;  old  servants  had  dropped  hints :  she  knew, 
too,  that  he  was  not  a  good  man,  and  that  he  was  never 
kind  to  her.  She  recollected — a  dark  recollection  it  was — 
some  weeks  that  she  had  spent  with  him  in  a  great  town 
somewhere,  when  she  had  had  no  maid  to  dress  her  or  take 
care  of  her  ;  when  she  had  been  shut  up,  day  and  night,  in  a 
high  garret-room,  without  a  carpet,  with  a  bare  uncurtained 
bed,  and  scarcely  any  other  furniture ;  when  he  went  out 
early  every  morning,  and  often  forgot  to  return  and  give  her 
her  dinner  during  the  day,  and  at  night,  when  he  came  back, 
was  like  a  madman,  furious,  terrible  ;  or — still  more  painful 
— like  an  idiot,  imbecile,  senseless.  She  knew  she  had 
fallen  ill  in  this  place,  and  that  one  night  when  she  was 
very  sick,  he  had  come  raving  into  the  room,  and  said  he 
would  kill  her,  for  she  was  a  burden  to  him ;  her  screams 
had  brought  aid,  and  from  the  moment  she  was  then  rescued 
from  him  she  had  never  seen  him,  except  as  a  dead  man  in 
his  coffin. 

That  was  her  father  :  also  she  had  a  mother  ;  though 
Mr.  Helstone  never  spoke  to  her  of  that  mother ;  though 
she  could  not  remember  having  seen  her  :  but  that  she  was 
alive  she  knew.  This  mother  was  then  the  drunkard's  wife  : 
what  had  their  marriage  been  ?  Caroline,  turning  from  the 
lattice  whence  she  had  been  watching  the  starlings  (though 
without  seeing  them),  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  sad  bitter 
tone,  thus  broke  the  silence  of  the  room : — '  You  term 
marriage  miserable,  I  suppose,  from  what  you  saw  of  my 
father  and  mother's.  If  my  mother  suffered  what  I  suffered 
when  I  was  with  papa,  she  must  have  had  a  dreadful  life.' 

Mr.  Helstone,  thus  addressed,  wheeled  about  in  his  chair, 
and  looked  over  his  spectacles  at  his  niece :  he  was  taken  aback. 

Her  father  and  mother  !     What  had  put  it  into  her  head 


THE  CURATES  AT  TEA  105 

to  mention  her  father  and  mother,  of  whom  he  had  never, 
during  the  twelve  years  she  had  lived  with  him,  spoken  to  her  ? 
That  the  thoughts  were  self-matured  ;  that  she  had  any  recol- 
lections or  speculations  about  her  parents,  he  could  not  fancy. 

I  Your  father  and  mother  ?     Who  has  been  talking  to  you 
about  them  ? ' 

'  Nobody ;  but  I  remember  something  of  what  papa  was, 
and  I  pity  mamma.  Where  is  she  ? ' 

This  '  Where  is  she  ? '  had  been  on  Caroline's  lips 
hundreds  of  times  before ;  but  till  now  she  had  never 
uttered  it. 

I 1  hardly  know,'  returned  Mr.  Helstone  ;   '  I  was  little 
acquainted  with  her.     I  have  not  heard  from  her  for  ^  jars  : 
but  wherever  she  is,  she  thinks  nothing  of  you ;  she  never 
inquires  about  you  ;  I  have  reason  to  believe  she  does  not 
wish  to  see  you.     Come,  it  is  schooltime  :  you  go  to  your 
cousin  at  ten,  don't  you  ?     The  clock  has  struck.' 

Perhaps  Caroline  would  have  said  more  ;  but  Fanny 
coming  in,  informed  her  master  that  the  churchwardens 
wanted  to  speak  to  him  in  the  vestry.  He  hastened  to  join 
them,  and  his  niece  presently  set  out  for  the  cottage. 

The  road  from  the  Rectory  to  Hollow's-mill  inclined 
downwards ;  she  ran,  therefore,  almost  all  the  way.  Exercise, 
the  fresh  air,  the  thought  of  seeing  Robert,  at  least  of  being  on 
his  premises,  in  his  vicinage,  revived  her  somewhat  depressed 
spirits  quickly.  Arriving  in  sight  of  the  white  house,  and 
•within  hearing  of  the  thundering  mill  and  its  rushing  water- 
course, the  first  thing  she  saw  was  Moore  at  his  garden-gate. 
There  he  stood ;  in  his  belted  Holland  blouse,  a  light  cap 
covering  his  head,  which  undress  costume  suited  him  :  he 
was  looking  down  the  lane,  not  in  the  direction  of  his  cousin's 
approach.  She  stopped,  withdrawing  a  little  behind  a  willow, 
and  studied  his  appearance. 

'  He  has  not  his  peer,'  she  thought ;  '  he  is  as  handsome 
as  he  is  intelligent.  What  a  keen  eye  he  has  !  What  clearly 
cut,  spirited  features— thin  and  serious,  but  graceful !  1  do  like 
his  face — I  do  like  his  aspect — I  do  like  him  so  much  !  Better 


106  SHIELEY 

than  any  of  those  shuffling  curates,  for  instance— better  than 
anybody  :  bonnie  Bobert ! ' 

She  sought  '  bonnie  Eobert's  '  presence  speedily.  For 
his  part,  when  she  challenged  his  sight,  I  believe  he  would 
have  passed  from  before  her  eyes  like  a  phantom,  if  he  could  ; 
but  being  a  tall  fact,  and  no  fiction,  he  was  obliged  to  stand 
the  greeting.  He  made  it  brief :  it  was  cousin-like,  brother- 
like,  friend-like,  anything  but  lover-like.  The  nameless 
charm  of  last  night  had  left  his  manner :  he  was  no  longer 
the  same  man  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  the  same  heart  did  not  beat 
in  his  breast.  Eude  disappointment !  sharp  cross  !  At  first 
the  eager  girl  would  not  believe  in  the  change,  though  she 
saw  and  felt  it.  It  was  difficult  to  withdraw  her  hand  from 
his,  till  he  had  bestowed  at  least  something  like  a  kind 
pressure ;  it  was  difficult  to  turn  her  eyes  from  his  eyes,  till 
his  looks  had  expressed  something  more  and  fonder  than 
that  cool  welcome. 

A  lover  masculine  so  disappointed  can  speak  and  urge 
explanation  ;  a  lover  feminine  can  say  nothing  ;  if  she  did, 
the  result  would  be  shame  and  anguish,  inward  remorse  for 
self-treachery.  Nature  would  brand  such  demonstration  as 
a  rebellion  against  her  instincts,  and  would  vindictively 
repay  it  afterwards  by  the  thunderbolt  of  self-contempt 
smiting  suddenly  in  secret.  Take  the  matter  as  you  find  it : 
ask  no  questions ;  utter  no  remonstrances  :  it  is  your  best 
wisdom.  You  expected  bread,  and  you  have  got  a  stone  ; 
break  your  teeth  on  it,  and  don't  shriek  because  the  nerves 
are  martyrised  :  do  not  doubt  that  your  mental  stomach — if 
you  have  such  a  thing — is  strong  as  an  ostrich's — the  stone 
will  digest.  You  held  out  your  hand  for  an  egg,  and  fate 
put  into  it  a  scorpion.  Show  no  consternation  :  close  your 
fingers  firmly  upon  the  gift ;  let  it  sting  through  your  palm. 
Never  mind  :  in  time,  after  your  hand  and  arm  have  swelled 
and  quivered  long  with  torture,  the  squeezed  scorpion  will 
die,  and  you  will  have  learned  the  great  lesson  how  to 
endure  without  a  sob.  For  the  whole  remnant  of  your  life, 
if  you  survive  the  test — some,  it  is  said,  die  under  it — you 


THE   CURATES  AT  TEA  107 

will  be  stronger,  wiser,  less  sensitive.  This  you  are  not  aware 
of,  perhaps,  at  the  time,  and  so  cannot  borrow  courage  of 
that  hope.  Nature,  however,  as  has  been  intimated,  is  an 
excellent  friend  in  such  cases ;  sealing  the  lips,  interdicting 
utterance,  commanding  a  placid  dissimulation  :  a  dissimu- 
lation often  wearing  an  easy  and  gay  mien  at  first,  settling 
down  to  sorrow  and  paleness  in  time,  then  passing  away, 
and  leaving  a  convenient  stoicism,  not  the  less  fortifying 
because  it  is  half-bitter. 

Half -bitter  !  Is  that  wrong  ?  No — it  should  be  bitter  : 
bitterness  is  strength — it  is  a  tonic.  Sweet  mild  force 
following  acute  suffering,  you  find  nowhere :  to  talk  of  it  is 
delusion.  There  may  be  apathetic  exhaustion  after  the  rack ; 
if  energy  remains,  it  will  be  rather  a  dangerous  ei^rgy — 
deadly  when  confronted  with  injustice. 

Who  has  read  the  ballad  of  '  Puir  Mary  Lee '  ? — that  old 
Scotch  ballad,  written  I  k~  ow  not  in  what  generation  nor 
by  what  hand.  Mary  had  been  ill  used — probably  in  being 
made  to  believe  that  truth  which  was  falsehood  :  she  is  not 
complaining,  but  she  is  sitting  alone  in  the  snow-storm,  and 
you  hear  her  thoughts.  They  are  not  the  thoughts  of  a 
model  heroine  under  her  circumstances,  but  they  are  those 
of  a  deeply-feeling,  strongly-resentful  peasant-girl.  Anguish 
has  driven  her  from  the  ingle-nook  of  home,  to  the  white- 
shrouded  and  icy  hills  :  crouched  under  the  '  cauld  drift,'  she 
recalls  every  image  of  horror, — '  the  yellow-wymed  ask,' 
'  the  hairy  adder,'  '  the  auld  moon-bowing  tyke,'  '  the  ghaist 
at  e'en,'  '  the  sour  bullister,'  '  the  milk  on  the  taed's  back  :  ' 
she  hates  these,  but  '  waur  she  hates  Robin -a-Ree  ! ' 

Oh  !  ance  I  lived  happily  by  yon  bonny  burn — 

The  warld  was  in  love  wi'  me  ; 
But  now  I  maun  sit  'neath  the  cauld  drift  and  mourn, 

And  curse  black  Kobin-a-llee ! 

Then  whudder  awa'  thou  bitter  biting  blast, 

And  sough  through  the  scrunty  tree, 
And  snioor  me  up  in  the  snaw  fu'  fast, 

And  ne'er  let  the  sun  me  see  ! 


108  SHIRLEY 

Oh,  never  melt  awa'  thou  wreath  o'  anaw, 

That's  sae  kind  in  graving  me ; 
But  hide  me  frae  the  scorn  and  guffaw 

0'  villains  like  Robin-a-Ree ! 

But  what  has  been  said  in  the  last  page  or  two  is  not 
germane  to  Caroline  Helstone's  feelings,  or  to  the  state  of 
things  between  her  and  Robert  Moore.  Eobert  had  done 
her  no  wrong  :  he  had  told  her  no  lie  ;  it  was  she  that  was 
to  blame,  if  any  one  was  :  what  bitterness  her  mind  distilled 
should  and  would  be  poured  on  her  own  head.  She  had 
loved  without  being  asked  to  love, — a  natural,  sometimes  an 
inevitable  chance,  but  big  with  misery. 

Eobert,  indeed,  had  sometimes  seemed  to  be  fond  of  her 
— but  why?  Because  she  had  made  herself  so  pleasing  to 
him,  he  could  not,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  help  testifying  a 
state  of  feeling  his  judgment  did  not  approve,  nor  his  will 
sanction.  He  was  about  to  withdraw  decidedly  from 
intimate  communication  with  her,  because  he  did  not  choose 
to  have  his  affections  inextricably  entangled,  nor  to  be 
drawn,  despite  his  reason,  into  a  marriage  he  believed 
imprudent.  Now,  what  was  she  to  do  ? — to  give  way  to  her 
feelings,  or  to  vanquish  them  ?  To  pursue  him,  or  to  turn 
upon  herself  ?  If  she  is  weak,  she  will  try  the  first  ex- 
pedient,— will  lose  his  esteem  and  win  his  aversion  :  if  she 
has  sense,  she  will  be  her  own  governor,  and  resolve  to 
subdue  and  bring  under  guidance  the  disturbed  realm  of  her 
emotions.  She  will  determine  to  look  on  life  steadily,  as  it 
is ;  to  begin  to  learn  its  severe  truths  seriously,  and  to  study 
its  knotty  problems  closely,  conscientiously. 

It  appeared  she  had  a  little  sense,  for  she  quitted  Robert 
quietly,  without  complaint  or  question — without  the  alteration 
of  a  muscle  or  the  shedding  of  a  tear— betook  herself  to  her 
studies  under  Hortense  as  usual,  and  at  dinner-time  went 
home  without  lingering. 

When  she  had  dined,  and  found  herself  in  the  Rectory 
drawing-room  alone,  having  left  her  uncle  over  his  tem- 
perate glass  of  port  wine,  the  difficulty  that  occurred  to 


THE  CUEATES  AT  TEA  109 

and  embarrassed  her,  was — '  How  am  I  to  get  through 
this  day  ? ' 

Last  night  she  had  hoped  it  would  be  spent  as  yesterday 
was, — that  the  evening  would  be  again  passed  with  Happiness 
and  Robert :'  she  had  learned  her  mistake  this  morning,  and 
yet  she  could  not  settle  down,  convinced  that  no  chance 
would  occur  to  recall  her  to  Hollow's  cottage,  or  to  bring 
Moore  again  into  her  society. 

He  had  walked  up  after  tea,  more  than  once,  to  pass  an 
hour  with  her  uncle :  the  door-bell  had  rung,  his  voice  had 
been  heard  in  the  passage  just  at  twilight,  when  she  little 
expected  such  a  pleasure ;  and  this  had  happened  twice  after 
he  had  treated  her  with  peculiar  reserve ;  and,  though  he 
rarely  talked  to  her  in  her  uncle's  presence,  he  had  looked 
at  her  relentingly,  as  he  sat  opposite  her  work-table  during 
his  stay :  the  few  words  he  had  spoken  to  her  were  com- 
forting ;  his  manner  on  bidding  her  good-night  was  genial. 
Now,  he  might  come  this  evening,  said  False  Hope :  she 
almost  knew  it  was  False  Hope  which  breathed  the  whisper, 
and  yet  she  listened. 

She  tried  to  read — her  thoughts  wandered  ;  she  tried  to 
sew — every  stitch  she  put  in  was  an  ennui,  the  occupation 
was  insufferably  tedious  ;  she  opened  her  desk,  and  attempted 
to  write  a  French  composition — she  wrote  nothing  but 
mistakes.  « 

Suddenly  the  door-bell  sharply  rang — her  heart  leaped — 
she  sprang  to  the  drawing-room  door,  opened  it  softly, 
peeped  through  the  aperture  :  Fanny  was  admitting  a  visitor 
— a  gentleman — a  tall  man — just  the  height  of  Robert — for 
one  second  she  thought  it  was  Robert — for  one  second  she 
exulted  ;  but  the  voice  asking  for  Mr.  Helstone  undeceived 
her  :  that  voice  was  an  Irish  voice,  consequently  not  Moore's 
but  the  curate's — Malone's.  He  was  ushered  into  the 
dining-room,  where,  doubtless,  he  speedily  helped  his  Rector 
to  empty  the  decanters. 

It  was  a  fact  to  be  noted,  that  at  whatever  house  in 
Briarfield,  \Yhinbury,  or  Nunnely,  one  curate  dropped  in  to 


110  SHIRLEY 

a  meal — dinner  or  tea,  as  the  case  might  be — another 
presently  followed  ;  often  two  more.  Not  that  they  gave 
each  other  the  rendezvous,  but  they  were  usually  all  on  the 
run  at  the  same  time  ;  and  when  Donne,  for  instance,  sought 
Malone  at  his  lodgings  and  found  him  not,  he  inquired 
whither  he  had  posted,  and  having  learned  of  the  landlady 
his  destination,  hastened  with  all  speed  after  him  ;  the  same 
causes  operated  in  the  same  way  with  Sweeting.  Thus  it 
chanced  on  that  afternoon  that  Caroline's  ears  were  three 
times  tortured  with  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  the  advent 
of  undesired  guests :  for  Donne  followed  Malone,  and 
Sweeting  followed  Donne ;  and  more  wine  was  ordered  up 
from  the  cellar  into  the  dining-room  (for  though  old  Helstone 
chid  the  inferior  priesthood  when  he  found  them  'carousing,' 
as  he  called  it,  in  their  own  tents,  yet  at  his  hierarchical  table 
he  ever  liked  to  treat  them  to  a  glass  of  his  best),  and  through 
the  closed  doors  Caroline  heard  their  boyish  laughter,  and 
the  vacant  cackle  of  their  voices.  Her  fear  was  lest  they 
should  stay  to  tea ;  for  she  had  no  pleasure  in  making  tea 
for  that  particular  trio.  What  distinctions  people  draw  ! 
These  three  were  men — young  men — educated  men,  like 
Moore  :  yet,  for  her,  how  great  the  difference  !  Their  society 
was  a  bore — his  a  delight. 

Not  only  was  she  destined  to  be  favoured  writh  their 
clerical  company,  but  Fortune  was  at  this  moment  bringing 
her  four  other  guests — lady-guests,  all  packed  in  a  pony- 
phaeton  now  rolling  somewhat  heavily  along  the  road  from 
Whinbury :  an  elderly  lady,  and  three  of  her  buxom 
daughters,  were  coming  to  see  her  '  in  a  friendly  way,'  as 
the  custom  of  that  neighbourhood  was.  Yes,  a  fourth  time 
the  bell  clanged  :  Fanny  brought  the  present  announcement 
to  the  drawing-room—'  Mrs.  Sykes  and  the  three  Misses 
Sykes.' 

When  Caroline  was  going  to  receive  company,  her  habit 
was  to  wring  her  hands  very  nervously,  to  flush  a  little,  and 
come  forward  hurriedly  yet  hesitatingly,  wishing  herself 
meantime  at  Jericho.  She  was,  at  such  crises,  sadly 


THE  CtJ&ATES  AT  TEA  111 

deficient  in  finished  manner,  though  she  had  once  been  at 
school  a  year.  Accordingly,  on  this  occasion,  her  small 
white  hands  sadly  maltreated  each  other,  while  she  stood  up, 
waiting  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Sykes. 

In  stalked  that  lady,  a  tall  bilious  gentlewoman,  who 
made  an  ample  and  not  altogether  insincere  profession  of 
piety,  and  was  greatly  given  to  hospitality  towards  the 
clergy ;  in  sailed  her  three  daughters,  a  showy  trio,  being  all 
three  well  grown,  and  more  or  less  handsome. 

In  English  country  ladies  there  is  this  point  to  be 
remarked.  Whether  young  or  old,  pretty  or  plain,  dull  or 
sprightly,  they  all  (or  almost  all)  have  a  certain  expression 
stamped  on  their  features,  wrhich  seems  to  say,  '  I  know — I 
do  not  boast  of  it — but  I  know  that  I  am  the  standard  of 
what  is  proper ;  let  every  one  therefore  whom  I  approach, 
or  who  approaches  me,  keep  a  sharp  look-out,  for  wherein 
they  differ  from  me — be  the  same  in  dress,  manner,  opinion, 
principle,  or  practice — therein  they  are  wrong.' 

Mrs.  and  Misses  Sykes,  far  from  being  exceptions  to  this 
observation,  were  pointed  illustrations  of  its  truth.  Miss 
Mary — a  well-looked,  well-meant,  and,  on  the  whole,  well- 
dispositioned  girl — wore  her  complacency  with  some  state, 
though  without  harshness  ;  Miss  Harriet — a  beauty — carried 
it  more  overbearingly  :  she  looked  high  and  cold ;  Miss 
Hannah,  who  was  conceited,  dashing,  pushing,  flourished 
hers  consciously  and  openly  ;  the  mother  evinced  it  with  the 
gravity  proper  to  her  age  and  religious  fame. 

The  reception  was  got  through  somehow.  Caroline  'was 
glad  to  see  them '  (an  unmitigated  fib),  hoped  they  were 
well,  hoped  Mrs.  Sykes's  cough  was  better  (Mrs.  Sykes  bad 
had  a  cough  for  the  last  twenty  years),  hoped  the  Misses 
Sykes  had  left  their  sisters  at  home  well;  to  which  inquiry, 
the  Misses  Sykes,  sitting  on  three  chairs  opposite  the  music- 
stool,  whereon  Caroline  had  undesignedly  come  to  anchor, 
after  wavering  for  some  seconds  between  it  and  a  large  arm- 
chair, into  which  she  at  length  recollected  she  ought  to 
induct  Mrs.  Sykes :  and  indeed  that  lady  saved  her  the 


112  SHIKLEY 

trouble  by  depositing  herself  therein  ; — the  Misses  Sykes 
replied  to  Caroline  by  one  simultaneous  bow,  very  majestic 
and  mighty  awful.  A  pause  followed :  this  bow  was  of  a 
character  to  ensure  silence  for  the  next  five  minutes,  and  it 
did.  Mrs.  Sykes  then  inquired  after  Mr.  Helstone,  and 
whether  he  had  had  any  return  of  rheumatism,  and  whether 
preaching  twice  on  a  Sunday  fatigued  him,  and  if  he  was 
capable  of  taking  a  full  service  now  ;  and  on  being  assured 
he  was,  she  and  all  her  daughters,  combining  in  chorus, 
expressed  their  opinion  that  he  was  '  a  wonderful  man  of  his 
years.' 

Pause  second. 

Miss  Mary,  getting  up  the  steam  in  her  turn,  asked 
whether  Caroline  had  attended  the  Bible  Society  meeting 
which  had  been  held  at  Nunnely  last  Thursday  night :  the 
negative  answer  which  truth  compelled  Caroline  to  utter — 
for  last  Thursday  evening  she  had  been  sitting  at  home, 
reading  a  novel  which  Eobert  had  lent  her — elicited  a 
simultaneous  expression  of  surprise  from  the  lips  of  the  four 
ladies. 

1  We  were  all  there,'  said  Miss  Mary ;  '  mamma  and  all 
of  us  ;  we  even  persuaded  papa  to  go :  Hannah  would  insist 
upon  it;  but  he  fell  asleep  while  Mr.  Langweilig,  the  German 
Moravian  minister,  was  speaking :  I  felt  quite  ashamed,  he 
nodded  so.' 

'  And  there  was  Dr.  Broadbent,'  cried  Hannah,  '  such  a 
beautiful  speaker !  You  couldn't  expect  it  of  him,  for  he  is 
almost  a  vulgar-looking  man.' 

'  But  such  a  dear  man,'  interrupted  Mary. 

'  And  such  a  good  man,  such  a  useful  man,'  added  her 
mother. 

'  Only  like  a  butcher  in  appearance,'  interposed  the  fair 
proud  Harriet.  '  I  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  him  :  I  listened 
with  my  eyes  shut.' 

Miss  Helstone  felt  her  ignorance  and  incompetency  ;  not 
having  seen  Dr.  Broadbent,  she  could  not  give  her  opinion. 
Pause  third  came  on.  During  its  continuance,  Caroline  was 


THE  CUKATES  AT  TEA  113 

feeling  at  her  heart's  core  what  a  dreaming  fool  she  was ; 
what  an  unpractical  life  she  led  ;  how  little  fitness  there  was 
in  her  for  ordinary  intercourse  with  the  ordinary  world. 
She  was  feeling  how  exclusively  she"  had  attached  herself  to 
the  white  cottage  in  the  Hollow ;  how  in  the  existence  of  one 
inmate  of  that  cottage  she  had  pent  all  her  universe :  she 
was  sensible  that  this  would  not  do,  and  that  some  day  she 
would  be  forced  to  make  an  alteration  :  it  could  not  be  said 
that  she  exactly  wished  to  resemble  the  ladies  before  her, 
but  she  wished  to  become  superior  to  her  present  self,  so  as 
to  feel  less  scared  by  their  dignity. 

The  sole  means  she  found  of  reviving  the  flagging  dis- 
course was  by  asking  them  if  they  would  all  stay  to  tea ; 
and  a  cruel  struggle  it  cost  her  to  perform  this  piece  of 
civility.  Mrs.  Sykes  had  begun — '  We  ai'e  much  obliged  to 
you,  but '  when  in  came  Fanny  once  more. 

'  The  gentlemen  will  stay  the  evening,  ma'am/  was  the 
message  she  brought  from  Mr.  Helstone. 

'  What  gentlemen  have  you  ? '  now  inquired  Mrs.  Sykes. 
Their  names  were  specified ;  she  and  her  daughters  inter- 
changed glances  :  the  curates  were  not  to  them  what  they 
were  to  Caroline.  Mr.  Sweeting  was  quite  a  favourite  with 
them ;  even  Mr.  Malone  rather  so,  because  he  was  a  clergy- 
man. '  Eeally,  since  you  have  company  already,  I  think  we 
will  stay,'  remarked  Mrs.  Sykes.  '  We  shall  be  quite  a 
pleasant  little  party  :  I  always  like  to  meet  the  clergy.' 

And  now  Caroline  had  to  usher  them  upstairs,  to  help 
them  to  unshawl,  smooth  their  hair,  and  make  themselves 
smart ;  to  re-conduct  them  to  the  drawing-room,  to  distri- 
bute amongst  them  books  of  engravings,  or  odd  things 
purchased  from  the  Jew-basket :  she  was  obliged  to  be  a 
purchaser,  though  she  was  but  a  slack  contributor  :  and  if 
she  had  possessed  plenty  of  money,  she  would  rather,  when 
it  was  brought  to  the  Rectory — an  awful  incubus ! — have 
purchased  the  whole  stock,  than  contributed  a  single  pin- 
cushion. 

It  ought  perhaps   to   be   explained  in  passing,    for  the 


114  SHIRLEY 

benefit  of  those  who  are  not  '  au  fait '  to  the  mysteries  of  the 
'  Jew-basket '  and  '  Missionary-basket/  that  these  '  meubles  ' 
are  willow-repositories,  of  the  capacity  of  a  good-sized  family 
clothes-basket,  dedicated  to  the  purpose  of  conveying  from 
house  to  house  a  monster  collection  of  pincushions,  needle- 
books,  card-racks,  work-bags,  articles  of  infant  wear,  &c.  &c. 
&c.,  made  by  the  willing  or  reluctant  hands  of  the  Christian 
ladies  of  a  parish,  and  sold  perforce  to  the  heathenish 
gentlemen  thereof,  at  prices  unblushingly  exorbitant.  The 
proceeds  of  such  compulsory  sales  are  applied  to  the  conver- 
sion of  the  Jews,  the  seeking  out  of  the  ten  missing  tribes, 
or  to  the  regeneration  of  the  interesting  coloured  population 
of  the  globe.  Each  lady-contributor  takes  it  in  her  turn  to 
keep  the  basket  a  month,  to  sew  for  it,  and  to  foist  off  its 
contents  on  a  shrinking  male  public.  An  exciting  time  it  is 
when  that  turn  comes  round  :  some  active-minded  women 
with  a  good  trading  spirit  like  it,  and  enjoy  exceedingly  the 
fun  of  making  hard-handed  worsted-spinners  cash  up,  to  the 
tune  of  four  or  five  hundred  per  cent,  above  cost  price,  for 
articles  quite  useless  to  them  ;  other — feebler  souls  object  to 
it,  and  would  rather  see  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself  at 
their  door  any  morning  than  that  phantom-basket,  brought 
with  '  Mrs.  Rouse's  compliments,  and  please,  ma'am,  she 
says  it's  your  turn  now.' 

Miss  Helstone's  duties  of  hostess  performed,  more 
anxiously  than  cheerily,  she  betook  herself  to  the  kitchen, 
to  hold  a  brief  privy -council  with  Fanny  and  Eliza  about 
the  tea. 

1  What  a  lot  on  'em  ! '  cried  Eliza,  who  was  cook.  '  And 
I  put  off  the  baking  to-day  because  I  thought  there  would 
be  bread  plenty  to  fit  while  morning :  we  shall  never  have 
enow.' 

'  Are  there  any  tea-cakes  ?  '  asked  the  young  mistress. 

'  Only  three  and  a  loaf.  I  wish  these  fine  folk  would 
stay  at  home  till  they're  asked  :  and  I  want  to  finish  trim- 
ming my  hat '  (bonnet  she  meant). 

'  Then,'  suggested  Caroline,  to  whom  the  importance  of 


THE  CUBATES  AT  TEA  115 

the  emergency  gave  a  certain  energy,  '  Fanny  must  run 
down  to  Briarfield  and  buy  some  muffins  and  crumpets,  and 
some  biscuits  :  and  don't  be  cross,  Eliza,  we  can't  help  it 
now.' 

4  And  which  tea-things  are  we  to  have  ? ' 

'  Oh,  the  best,  I  suppose :  I'll  get  out  the  silver  service, 
and  she  ran  upstairs  to  the  plate-closet,  and  presently  brought 
down  teapot,  cream-ewer,  and  sugar-basin. 

'  And  mun  we  have  th'  urn  ? ' 

4  Yes ;  and  now  get  it  ready  as  quickly  as  you  can,  for 
the  sooner  we  have  tea  over,  the  sooner  they  will  go — at 
least,  I  hope  so.  Heigho !  I  wish  they  were  gone,'  she 
sighed  as  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  '  Still,'  she 
thought,  as  she  paused  at  the  door  ere  opening  it,  '  if  Eobert 
would  but  come  even  now  how  bright  all  would  be  !  How 
comparatively  easy  the  task  of  amusing  these  people,  if  he 
were  present !  There  would  be  an  interest  in  hearing  him 
talk  (though  he  never  says  much  in  company)  and  in  talking 
in  his  presence :  there  can  be  no  interest  in  hearing  any  of 
them,  or  in  speaking  to  them.  How  they  will  gabble  when 
the  curates  come  in,  and  how  weary  I  shall  grow  with  listen- 
ing to  them  !  But  I  suppose  I  am  a  selfish  fool :  these  are 
very  respectable  gentlefolks  ;  I  ought  no  doubt  to  be  proud 
of  their  countenance  :  I  don't  say  they  are  not  as  good  as  1 
am — far  from  it — but  they  are  different  from  me.' 

She  went  in. 

Yorkshire  people,  in  those  days,  took  their  tea  round  the 
table  ;  sitting  well  into  it,  with  their  knees  duly  introduced 
under  the  mahogany.  It  was  essential  to  have  a  multitude 
of  plates  of  bread  and  butter,  varied  in  sorts  and  plentiful  in 
quantity  :  it  was  thought  proper,  too,  that  on  the  centre-plate 
should  stand  a  glass  dish  of  marmalade  ;  among  the  viands 
was  expected  to  be  found  a  small  assortment  of  cheesecakes 
and  tarts :  if  there  was  also  a  plate  of  thin  slices  of  pink  ham 
garnished  with  green  parsley,  so  much  the  better. 

Eliza,  the  Rector's  cook,  fortunately  knew  her  business  as 
provider:  she  had  been  put  out  of  humour  a  little  at  11  si, 


116  SHIBLEY 

when  the  invaders  came  so  unexpectedly  in  such  strength  ; 
but  it  appeared  that  she  regained  her  cheerfulness  with  action, 
for  in  due  time  the  tea  was  spread  forth  in  handsome  style  ; 
and  neither  ham,  tarts,  nor  marmalade  were  wanting  among 
its  accompaniments. 

The  curates,  summoned  to  this  bounteous  repast,  entered 
joyous  ;  but  at  once,  on  seeing  the  ladies,  of  whose  presence 
they  had  not  been  forewarned,  they  came  to  a  stand  in  the  door- 
way. Malone  headed  the  party ;  he  stopped  short  and  fell 
back,  almost  capsizing  Donne,  who  was  behind  him.  Donne, 
staggering  three  paces  in  retreat,  sent  little  Sweeting  into  the 
arms  of  old  Helstone,  who  brought  up  the  rear.  There  was 
some  expostulation,  some  tittering  :  Malone  was  desired  to 
mind  what  he  was  about,  and  urged  to  push  forward ;  which 
at  last  he  did,  though  colouring  to  the  top  of  his  peaked  fore- 
head a  bluish  purple.  Helstone,  advancing,  set  the  shy 
curates  aside,  welcomed  all  his  fair  guests,  shook  hands  and 
passed  a  jest  with  each,  and  seated  himself  snugly  between 
the  lovely  Harriet  and  the  dashing  Hannah  ;  Miss  Mary  he 
requested  to  move  to  the  seat  opposite  to  him,  that  he  might 
see  her,  if  he  couldn't  be  near  her.  Perfectly  easy  and  gallant, 
in  his  way,  were  his  manners  always  to  young  ladies  ;  and 
most  popular  was  he  amongst  them  :  yet,  at  heart,  he  neither 
respected  nor  liked  the  sex,  and  such  of  them  as  circumstances 
had  brought  into  intimate  relation  with  him  had  ever  feared 
rather  than  loved  him. 

The  curates  were  left  to  shift  for  themselves.  Sweeting, 
who  was  the  least  embarrassed  of  the  three,  took  refuge  be- 
side Mrs.  Sykes,  who,  he  knew,  was  almost  as  fond  of  him 
as  if  he  had  been  her  son.  Donne,  after  making  his  general 
bow  with  a  grace  all  his  own,  and  saying  in  a  high  pragma- 
tical voice,  "  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Helstone?"  dropped  into  a 
seat  at  Caroline's  elbow  :  to  her  unmitigated  annoyance,  for 
she  bad  a  peculiar  antipathy  to  Donne,  on  account  of  his 
stultified  and  unmovable  self-conceit,  and  his  incurable 
narrowness  of  mind.  Malone,  grinning  most  unmeaningly, 
inducted  himself  into  the  corresponding  seat  on  the  other 


THE  CUBATES  AT  TEA  117 

side  :  she  was  thus  blessed  in  a  pair  of  supporters ;  neither 
of  whom,  she  knew,  would  be  of  any  mortal  use,  whether  for 
keeping  up  the  conversation,  handing  cups,  circulating  the 
muffins,  or  even  lifting  the  plate  from  the  slop-basin.  Little 
Sweeting,  small  and  boyish  as  he  was,  would  have  been  worth 
twenty  of  them. 

Malone,  though  a  ceaseless  talker  when  there  were  only 
men  present,  was  usually  tongue-tied  in  the  presence  of 
ladies  :  three  phrases,  however,  he  had  ready  cut  and  dried, 
which  he  never  failed  to  produce  : — 

Istly. — '  Have  you  had  a  walk  to-day,  Miss  Helstone  ? ' 
2ndly. — '  Have  you  seen  your  cousin,  Moore,  lately  ?  ' 
3rdly. — '  Does  your  class  at  the  Sunday-school  keep  up 
its  number  ? ' 

These  three  questions  being  put  and  responded  to,  between 
Caroline  and  Malone  reigned  silence. 

With  Donne  it  was  otherwise  :  he  was  troublesome,  exas- 
perating. He  had  a  stock  of  small-talk  on  hand,  at  once  the 
most  trite  and  perverse  that  can  well  be  imagined  :  abuse  of 
the  people  of  Briarfield  ;  of  the  natives  of  Yorkshire  generally ; 
complaints  of  the  want  of  high  society ;  of  the  backward 
state  of  civilization  in  these  districts  ;  murmurings  against 
the  disrespectful  conduct  of  the  lower  orders  in  the  north 
toward  their  betters ;  silly  ridicule  of  the  manner  of  living  in 
these  parts, — the  want  of  style,  the  absence  of  elegance,  as  if 
he,  Donne,  had  been  accustomed  to  very  great  doings  indeed  : 
an  insinuation  which  his  somewhat  underbred  manner  and 
aspect  failed  to  bear  out.  These  strictures  he  seemed  to  think 
must  raise  him  in  the  estimation  of  Miss  Helstone,  or  of  any 
other  lady  who  heard  him ;  whereas  with  her,  at  least,  they 
brought  him  to  a  level  below  contempt :  though  sometimes, 
indeed,  they  incensed  her ;  for  a  Yorkshire  girl  herself,  she 
hated  to  hear  Yorkshire  abused  by  such  a  pitiful  prater  ;  and 
when  brought  up  to  a  certain  pitch,  she  would  turn  and  say 
something  of  which  neither  the  matter  nor  the  manner  recom- 
mended her  to  Mr.  Donne's  good  will.  She  would  tell  him 
it  was  no  proof  of  refinement  to  be  ever  scolding  others  for 


118  SHIKLEt 

vulgarity :  and  no  sign  of  a  good  pastor  to  be  eternally  cen- 
suring his  flock.  She  would  ask  him  what  he  had  entered 
the  church  for,  since  he  complained  there  were  only 
cotttiges  to  visit,  and  poor  people  to  preach  to? — whether  lie 
had  been  ordained  to  the  ministry  merely  to  wear  soft  cloth- 
ing and  sit  in  kings'  houses  ?  These  questions  were  con- 
sidered by  all  the  curates  as,  to  the  last  degree,  audacious  and 
impious. 

Tea  was  a  long  time  in  progress :  all  the  guests  gabbled, 
as  their  hostess  had  expected  they  would.  Mr.  Helstone, 
being  in  excellent  spirits, — when,  indeed,  was  he  ever  other- 
wise in  society,  attractive  female  society  ? — it  being  only 
with  the  one  lady  of  his  own  family  that  he  maintained  a 
grim  taciturnity, —  kept  up  a  brilliant  flow  of  easy  prattle  with 
his  right-hand  and  left-hand  neighbours,  and  even  with  his 
vis-d-vis,  Miss  Mary  :  though  as  Mary  was  the  most  sen- 
sible, the  least  coquettish  of  the  three,  to  her  the  elderly 
widower  was  the  least  attentive.  At  heart,  he  could  not  abide 
sense  in  women  :  he  liked  to  see  them  as  silly,  as  light-headed, 
as  vain,  as  open  to  ridicule  as  possible ;  because  they  were 
then  in  reality  what  he  held  them  to  be,  and  wished  them  to 
be, — inferior  :  toys  to  play  with,  to  amuse  a  vacant  hour  and 
to  be  thrown  away. 

Hannah  was  his  favourite.  Harriet,  though  beautiful, 
egotistical,  and  self-satisfied,  was  not  quite  weak  enough  for 
him ;  she  had  some  genuine  self-respect  amidst  much  false 
pride,  and  if  she  did  not  talk  like  an  oracle,  neither  would 
she  babble  like  one  crazy  :  she  would  not  permit  herself  to  be 
treated  quite  as  a  doll,  a  child,  a  plaything  :  she  expected  to 
be  bent  to  like  a  queen. 

Hannah,  on  the  contrary,  demanded  no  respect ;  only 
flattery  :  if  her  admirers  only  told  her  that  she  was  an  angel, 
she  would  let  them  treat  her  like  an  idiot.  So  very  credulous 
and  frivolous  was  she  :  so  very  silly  did  she  become  when  be- 
sieged with  attention,  flattered  and  admired  to  the  proper  de- 
gree, that  there  were  moments  when  Helstone  actually  felt 
tempted  to  commit  matrimony  a  second  time,  and  to  try  the 


THE  CURATES  AT  TEA  119 

experiment  of  taking  her  for  his  second  helpmeet :  but,  for- 
tunately, the  salutary  recollection  of  the  ennuis  of  his  first 
marriage,  the  impression  still  left  on  him  of  the  weight  of  the 
millstone  he  had  once  worn  round  his  neck,  the  fixity  of  his 
feelings  respecting  the  insufferable  evils  of  conjugal  existence, 
operated  as  a  check  to  his  tenderness,  suppressed  the  sigh 
heaving  his  old  iron  lungs,  and  restrained  him  from  whisper- 
ing to  Hannah  proposals  it  would  have  been  high  fun  and 
great  satisfaction  to  her  to  hear. 

It  is  probable  she  would  have  married  him  if  he  had  asked 
her  :  her  parents  would  have  quite  approved  the  match  :  to 
them  his  fifty-five  years,  his  bend-leather  heart,  could  have 
presented  no  obstacles  ;  and,  as  he  was  a  rector,  held  an  ex- 
cellent living,  occupied  a  good  house,  and  was  supposed  even 
to  have  private  property  (though  in  that  the  world  was 
mistaken  :  every  penny  of  the  5.000/.  inherited  by  him  from 
his  father  had  been  devoted  to  the  building  and  endowing  of 
a  new  church  at  his  native  village  in  Lancashire — for 
he  could  show  a  lordly  munificence  when  he  pleased,  and  if 
the  end  was  to  his  liking,  never  hesitated  about  making  a 
grand  sacrifice  to  attain  it), — her  parents,  I  say,  would  have 
delivered  Hannah  over  to  his  loving  kindness  and  his  tender 
mercies  without  one  scruple ;  and  the  second  Mrs.  Hel- 
stone,  inversing  the  natural  order  of  insect  existence,  would 
have  fluttered  through  the  honeymoon  a  bright,  admired 
butterfly,  and  crawled  the  rest  of  her  days  a  sordid,  trampled 
worm. 

Little  Mr.  Sweeting,  seated  between  Mrs.  Sykes  and  Miss 
Mary,  both  of  whom  were  very  kind  to  him,  and  having  a  dish 
of  tarts  before  him,  and  marmalade  and  crumpet  upon  his  plate, 
looked  and  felt  more  content  than  any  monarch.  He  was 
fond  of  all  the  Misses  Sykes  :  they  were  all  fond  of  him  :  he 
thought  them  magnificent  girls,  quite  proper  to  mate  with 
one  of  his  inches.  If  he  had  a  cause  of  regret  at  this  blissful 
moment,  it  was  that  Miss  Dora  happened  to  be  absent ;  Dora 
being  the  one  whom  he  secretly  hoped  one  day  to  call  Mrs. 
David  Sweeting,  with  whom  he  dreamt  of  taking  stately 


120  SHIRLEY 

walks,  leading  her  like  an  empress  through  the  village  of 
Nunnely  :  and  an  empress  she  would  have  been,  if  size 
could  make  an  empress.  She  was  vast,  ponderous:  seen 
from  behind,  she  had  the  air  of  a  very  stout  lady  of  forty ; 
but  withal  she  possessed  a  good  face,  and  no  unkindly 
character. 

The  meal  at  last  drew  to  a  close  :  it  would  have  been 
over  long  ago,  if  Mr.  Donne  had  not  persisted  in  sitting  with 
his  cup  half  full  of  cold  tea  before  him,  long  after  the  rest 
had  finished  and  after  he  himself  had  discussed  such  allow- 
ance of  viands  as  he  felt  competent  to  swallow — long,  indeed, 
after  signs  of  impatience  had  been  manifested  all  round  the 
board :  till  chairs  were  pushed  back  ;  till  the  talk  flagged ; 
till  silence  fell.  Vainly  did  Caroline  inquire  repeatedly  if 
he  would  have  another  cup  ;  if  he  would  take  a  little  hot  tea, 
as  that  must  be  cold,  &c.  :  he  would  neither  drink  it  nor  leave 
it.  He  seemed  to  think  that  this  isolated  position  of  his 
gave  him  somehow  a  certain  importance  :  that  it  was  digni- 
fied and  stately  to  be  the  last :  that  it  was  grand  to  keep  all 
the  others  waiting.  So  long  did  he  linger,  that  the  very  urn 
died ;  it  ceased  to  hiss.  At  length,  however,  the  old  Hector 
himself,  who  had  hitherto  been  too  pleasantly  engaged  with 
Hannah  to  care  for  the  delay,  got  impatient. 

'  For  whom  are  we  waiting  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  For  me,  I  believe,'  returned  Donne,  complacently ; 
appearing  to  think  it  much  to  his  credit  that  a  party  should 
thus  be  kept  dependent  on  his  movements. 

'  Tut ! '  cried  Helstone  :  then  standing  up,  '  Let  us  return 
thanks,'  said  he  :  which  he  did  forthwith,  and  all  quitted  the 
table.  Donne,  nothing  abashed,  still  sat  ten  minutes  quite 
alone,  whereupon  Mr.  Helstone  rang  the  bell  for  the  things 
to  be  removed ;  the  curate  at  length  saw  himself  forced  to 
empty  his  cup,  and  to  relinquish  the  role  which,  he  thought, 
had  given  him  such  a  felicitous  distinction,  drawn  upon  him 
such  flattering  general  notice. 

And  now,  in  the  natural  course  of  events  (Caroline, 
knowing  how  it  would  be,  had  opened  the  piano,  and  pro- 


THE  CUKATES  AT  TEA  121 

duced  music-books  in  readiness),  music  was  asked  for.  This 
was  Mr.  Sweeting's  chance  for  showing  off:  he  was  eager  to 
commence ;  he  undertook,  therefore,  the  arduous  task  of 
persuading  the  young  ladies  to  favour  the  company  with  an 
air — a  song.  Con  amore,  he  went  through  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  begging,  praying,  resisting  excuses,  explaining  away 
difficulties,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  persuading  Miss  Harriet 
to  allow  herself  to  be  led  to  the  instrument.  Then  out  came 
the  pieces  of  his  flute  (he  always  carried  them  in  his  pocket, 
as  unfailingly  as  he  carried  his  handkerchief).  They  were 
screwed  and  arranged ;  Malone  and  Donne  meantime 
herding  together,  and  sneering  at  him,  which  the  little  man, 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  saw,  but  did  not  heed  at  all :  he 
was  persuaded  their  sarcasm  all  arose  from  envy  :  they  could 
not  accompany  the  ladies  as  he  could  ;  he  was  about  to  enjoy 
a  triumph  over  them. 

The  triumph  began.  Malone,  much  chagrined  at  hearing 
him  pipe  up  in  most  superior  style,  determined  to  earn  dis- 
tinction, too,  if  possible,  and  all  at  once  assuming  the 
character  of  a  swain  (which  character  he  had  endeavoured  to 
enact  once  or  twice  before,  but  in  which  he  had  not  hitherto 
met  with  the  success  he  doubtless  opined  his  merits  deserved), 
approached  a  sofa  on  which  Miss  Helstone  was  seated,  and 
depositing  his  great  Irish  frame  near  her,  tried  his  hand  (or 
rather  tongue)  at  a  fine  speech  or  two,  accompanied  by  grins 
the  most  extraordinary  and  incomprehensible.  In  the 
course  of  his  efforts  to  render  himself  agreeable,  he  contrived 
to  possess  himself  of  the  two  long  sofa  cushions  and  a 
square  one  ;  with  which,  after  rolling  them  about  for  some 
time  with  strange  gestures,  be  managed  to  erect  a  sort  of 
barrier  between  himself  and  the  object  of  his  attentions. 
Caroline,  quite  willing  that  they  should  bo  sundorrd,  soon 
devised  an  excuse  for  stepping  over  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room,  and  taking  up  a  position  beside  Mrs.  Sykos  ;  of 
which  good  lady  she  entreated  some  instruction  in  a  new 
stitch  in  ornamental  knitting,  a  favour  readily  granted  ;  and 
thus  Peter  Augustus  was  thrown  out. 


122  SHIRLEY 

Very  sullenly  did  his  countenance  lower  when  he  saw 
himself  abandoned, — left  entirely  to  his  own  resources,  on  a 
large  sofa,  with  the  charge  of  three  small  cushions  on  his 
hands.  The  fact  was,  he  felt  disposed  seriously  to  cultivate 
acquaintance  with  Miss  Helstone ;  because  he  thought,  in 
common  with  others,  that  her  uncle  possessed  money,  and 
concluded,  that  since  he  had  no  children,  he  would  probably 
leave  it  to  his  niece.  Gerard  Moore  was  better  instructed  on 
this  point :  he  had  seen  the  neat  church  that  owed  its  origin 
to  the  Rector's  zeal  and  cash,  and  more  than  once,  in  his 
inmost  soul,  had  cursed  an  expensive  caprice  which  crossed 
his  wishes. 

The  evening  seemed  long  to  one  person  in  that  room. 
Caroline  at  intervals  dropped  her  knitting  on  her  lap,  and 
gave  herself  up  to  a  sort  of  brain-lethargy — closing  her  eyes 
and  depressing  her  head — caused  by  what  seemed  to  her  the 
unmeaning  hum  around  her  :  the  inharmonious,  tasteless 
rattle  of  the  piano  keys,  the  squeaking  and  gasping  notes  of 
the  flute,  the  laughter  and  mirth  of  her  uncle,  and  Hannah, 
and  Mary,  she  could  not  tell  whence  originating,  for  she  heard 
nothing  comic  or  gleeful  in  their  discourse  ;  and  more  than 
all  by  the  interminable  gossip  of  Mrs.  Sykes  murmui'ed 
close  at  her  ear ;  gossip  which  rang  the  changes  on  four  sub- 
jects :  her  own  health  and  that  of  the  various  members  of  her 
family  ;  the  Missionary  and  Jew-baskets  and  their  contents  ; 
the  late  meeting  at  Nunnely,  and  one  which  was  expected  to 
come  off  next  week  at  Whinbury. 

Tired  at  length  to  exhaustion,  she  embraced  the  oppor- 
tunity of  Mr.  Sweeting  coming  up  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Sykes,  to 
slip  quietly  out  of  the  apartment,  and  seek  a  moment's  respite 
in  solitude.  She  repaired  to  the  dining-room,  where  the 
clear  but  now  low  remnant  of  a  tire  still  burnt  in  the  grate. 
The  place  was  empty  and  quiet,  glasses  and  decanters  were 
cleared  from  the  table,  the  chairs  were  put  back  in  their 
places,  all  was  orderly.  Caroline  sank  into  her  uncle's 
large  easy  chair,  half  bhut  her  eyes,  and  rested  herself — 
rested  at  least  her  limbs,  her  senses,  her  hearing,  her  vision 


THE   CUKATES   AT  TEA  123 

— weary  with  listening  to  nothing,  and  gazing  on  vacancy. 
As  to  her  mind,  that  flew  directly  to  the  Hollow  :  it  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  the  parlour  there,  then  it  passed  to  the 
counting-house,  and  wondered  which  spot  was  blessed  by  the 
presence  of  Bobert.  It  so  happened  that  neither  locality  had 
that  honour ;  for  Robert  was  half  a  mile  away  from  both, 
and  much  nearer  to  Caroline  than  her  deadened  spirit  sus- 
pected :  he  was  at  this  moment  crossing  the  churchyard, 
approaching  the  Rectory  garden -gate  :  not,  however,  coming 
to  see  his  cousin,  but  intent  solely  on  communicating  a  brief 
piece  of  intelligence  to  the  Rector. 

Yes,  Caroline ;  you  hear  the  wire  of  the  bell  vibrate :  it 
rings  again  for  the  fifth  time  this  afternoon :  you  start, 
and  you  are  certain  now  that  this  must  be  him  of  whom  you 
dream.  Why  you  are  so  certain  you  cannot  explain  to  your- 
self, but  you  know  it.  You  lean  forward,  listening  eagerly 
as  Fanny  opens  the  door  :  right !  that  is  the  voice — low — with 
the  slight  foreign  accent,  but  so  sweet,  as  you  fancy  :  you 
half  rise  :  '  Fanny  will  tell  him  Mr.  Helstone  is  with  company, 
and  then  he  will  go  away.'  Oil !  she  cannot  let  him  go  :  in 
spite  of  herself — in  spite  of  her  reason  she  walks  half  across 
the  room  ;  she  stands  ready  to  dart  out  in  case  the  step 
should  retreat :  but  he  enters  the  passage.  '  Since  your 
master  is  engaged,'  he  says,  '  just  show  me  into  the  dining- 
room  ;  bring  me  pen  and  ink  :  I  will  write  a  short  note  and 
leave  it  for  him.' 

Now,  having  caught  these  words,  and  hearing  him  advance, 
Caroline,  if  there  was  a  door  within  the  dining-room,  would 
glide  through  it  and  disappear.  She  feels  caught,  hemmed 
in ;  she  dreads  her  unexpected  presence  may  annoy  him. 
A  second  since,  she  would  have  flown  to  him ;  that  second 
past,  she  would  flee  from  him.  She  cannot ;  there  is  no  way 
of  escape  ;  the  dining-room  has  but  one  door,  through  which 
now  enters  her  cousin.  The  look  of  troubled  surprise 
she  expected  to  see  in  his  face  has  appeared  there,  has 
shocked  her,  and  is  gone.  She  has  stammered  a  sort  of 
apology :— 


124  SHIRLEY 

'  I  only  left  the  drawing-room  a  minute  for  a  little 
quiet.' 

There  was  something  so  diffident  and  downcast  in  the 
air  and  tone  with  which  she  said  this,  any  one  might  per- 
ceive that  some  saddening  change  had  lately  passed  over 
her  prospects,  and  that  the  faculty  of  cheerful  self-possession 
had  left  her.  Mr.  Moore,  probably,  remembered  how  she 
had  formerly  been  accustomed  to  meet  him  with  gentle 
ardour  and  hopeful  confidence  ;  he  must  have  seen  how  the 
check  of  this  morning  had  operated :  here  was  an  oppor- 
tunity for  carrying  out  his  new  system  with  effect,  if  he  chose 
to  improve  it.  Perhaps  he  found  it  easier  to  practise  that 
system  in  broad  daylight,  in  his  mill-yard,  amidst  busy 
occupations,  than  in  a  quiet  parlour,  disengaged,  at  the  hour 
of  eventide.  Fanny  lit  the  candles,  which  before  had  stood 
unlit  on  the  table,  brought  writing-materials,  and  left  the 
room :  Caroline  was  about  to  follow  her.  Moore,  to  act 
consistently,  should  have  let  her  go;  whereas  he  stood  in 
the  doorway,  and,  holding  out  his  hand,  gently  kept  her 
back ;  he  did  not  ask  her  to  stay,  but  he  would  not  let 
her  go. 

1  Shall  I  tell  my  uncle  you  are  here  ?  '  asked  she,  still  in 
the  same  subdued  voice. 

'  No  :  I  can  say  to  you  all  I  had  to  say  to  him.  You  will 
be  my  messenger.' 

4  Yes,  Robert.' 

'  Then  you  may  just  inform  him  that  I  have  got  a  clue 
to  the  identity  of  one,  at  least,  of  the  men  who  broke  my 
frames  ;  that  he  belongs  to  the  same  gang  who  attacked 
Sykes  and  Pearson's  dressing-shop ;  and  that  I  hope  to  have 
him  in  custody  to-morrow.  You  can  remember  that  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  yes.'  These  two  monosyllables  were  uttered  in  a 
sadder  tone  than  ever ;  and,  as  she  said  them,  she  shook 
her  head  slightly,  and  sighed.  '  Will  you  prosecute  him  ? ' 

1  Doubtless.' 

'  No,  Robert.' 

'  And  why  no,  Caroline  ? ' 


THE  CUEATES  AT  TEA-  125 

'  Because  it  will  set  all  the  neighbourhood  against  you 
more  than  ever.' 

'  That  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  do  my  duty,  and 
defend  my  property.  This  fellow  is  a  great  scoundrel,  and 
ought  to  be  incapacitated  from  perpetrating  further  mis- 
chief.' 

'  But  his  accomplices  will  take  revenge  on  you.  You  do 
not  know  how  the  people  of  this  country  bear  malice :  it  is 
the  boast  of  some  of  them  that  they  can  keep  a  stone  in 
their  pocket  seven  years,  turn  it  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
keep  it  seven  years  longer,  and  hurl  it  and  hit  their  mark  "  at 
last."  ' 

Moore  laughed. 

'  A  most  pithy  vaunt,'  said  he ;  '  one  that  redounds 
vastly  to  the  credit  of  your  dear  Yorkshire  friends.  But 
don't  fear  for  me,  Lina :  I  am  on  my  guard  against  these 
lamb-like  compatriots  of  yours  :  don't  make  yourself  uneasy 
about  me.' 

'  How  can  I  help  it  ?  You  are  my  cousin.  If  anything 
happened '  she  stopped. 

1  Nothing  will  happen,  Lina.  To  speak  in  your  own 
language,  there  is  a  Providence  above  all — is  there  not  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  dear  Eobert.     May  He  guard  you  !  ' 

'  And  if  prayers  have  efficacy,  yours  will  benefit  me :  you 
pray  for  me  sometimes  ?  ' 

'  Not  sometimes,  Eobert :  you,  and  Louis,  and  Hortense 
are  always  remembered.' 

'  So  I  have  often  imagined  :  it  has  occurred  to  me,  when, 
weary  and  vexed,  I  have  myself  gone  to  bed  like  a  heathen, 
that  another  had  asked  forgiveness  for  my  day  and  safety 
for  my  night.  I  don't  suppose  such  vicarial  piety  will  avail 
much  ;  but  the  petitions  come  out  of  a  sincere  breast,  from 
innocent  lips  :  they  should  be  acceptable  as  Abel's  offering  ; 
and  doubtless  would  be,  if  the  object  deserved  them.' 

'  Annihilate  that  doubt :  it  is  groundless.' 

'  When  a  man  has  been  brought  up  only  to  make  money, 
and  lives  to  make  it,  and  for  nothing  else,  and  scarcely 


126  SHIKLEY 

breathes  any  other  air  than  that  of  mills  and  markets,  it 
seems  odd  to  utter  his  name  in  a  prayer,  or  to  mix  his  idea 
with  anything  divine ;  and  very  strange  it  seems,  that  a 
good,  pure  heart  should  take  him  in  and  harbour  him,  as  if 
he  had  any  claim  to  that  sort  of  nest.  If  I  could  guide  that 
benignant  heart,  I  believe  I  should  counsel  it  to  exclude 
one  who  does  not  profess  to  have  any  higher  aim  in  life 
than  that  of  patching  up  his  broken  fortune,  and  wiping 
clean  from  his  bourgeois  scutcheon  the  foul  stain  of  bank- 
ruptcy.' 

The  hint,  though  conveyed  thus  tenderly  and  modestly 
(as  Caroline  thought),  was  felt  keenly  and  comprehended 
clearly. 

'  Indeed,  I  only  think — or  I  will  only  think— of  you  as 
my  cousin,'  was  the  quick  answer.  '  I  am  beginning  to 
understand  things  better  than  I  did,  Kobert,  when  you  first 
came  to  England  :  better  than  I  did,  a  week — a  day  ago.  I 
know  it  is  your  duty  to  try  to  get  on,  and  that  it  won't 
do  for  you  to  be  romantic ;  but  in  future  you  must  not 
misunderstand  me,  if  I  seem  friendly.  You  misunderstood 
me  this  morning,  did  you  not  ?  ' 

'  What  made  you  think  so  ?  ' 

I  Your  look — your  manner.1 
'  But  look  at  me  now ' 

'  Oh  !  you  are  different  now :  at  present,  I  dare  speak  to 
you.' 

'  Yet  I  am  the  same,  except  that  I  have  left  the  trades- 
man behind  me  in  the  Hollow  :  your  kinsman  alone  stands 
before  you.' 

'  My  cousin  Robert ;  not  Mr.  Moore.' 

'  Not  a  bit  of  Mr.  Moore.     Caroline ' 

Here  the  company  was  heard  rising  in  the  other  room  ; 
the  door  was  opened ;  the  pony-carriage  was  ordered  ; 
shawls  and  bonnets  were  demanded  ;  Mr.  Helstone  called 
for  his  niece. 

I 1  must  go,  Robert.' 

'  Yes,  you  must  go,  or  they  will  come  in,  and  find  us 


THE   CUEATES  AT  TEA  127 

here  ;  and  I,  rather  than  meet  all  that  host  in  the  passage, 
will  take  my  departure  through  the  window  :  luckily,  it 
opens  like  a  door.  One  minute  only — put  down  the  candle 
an  instant — good  night !  I  kiss  you  because  we  are  cousins  ; 
and,  being  cousins — one — two — three  kisses  are  allowable. 
Caroline,  good-night ! ' 


CHAPTER   VIII 

NOAH   AND   MOSES 

THE  next  day,  Moore  had  risen  before  the  sun,  and  had 
taken  a  ride  to  Whinbury  and  back  ere  his  sister  had  made 
the  caf6  au  lait,  or  cut  the  tartines  for  his  breakfast.  What 
business  he  transacted  there,  he  kept  to  himself.  Hortense 
asked  no  questions  :  it  was  not  her  wont  to  comment  on  his 
movements,  nor  his  to  render  an  account  of  them.  The 
secrets  of  business — complicated  and  often  dismal  mysteries 
— were  buried  in  his  breast,  and  never  came  out  of  their 
sepulchre,  save  now  and  then  to  scare  Joe  Scott,  or  give  a 
start  to  some  foreign  correspondent :  indeed,  a  general  habit 
of  reserve  on  whatever  was  important  seemed  bred  in  his 
mercantile  blood. 

Breakfast  over,  he  went  to  his  counting-house.  Henry, 
Joe  Scott's  boy,  brought  in  the  letters  and  the  daily  papers ; 
Moore  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  broke  the  seals  of  the 
documents,  and  glanced  them  over.  They  were  all  short, 
but  not — it  seemed — sweet ;  probably  rather  sour  on  the 
contrary,  for  as  Moore  laid  down  the  last,  his  nostrils 
emitted  a  derisive  and  defiant  snuff;  and,  though  he  burst 
into  no  soliloquy,  there  was  a  glance  in  his  eye  which  seemed 
to  invoke  the  devil,  and  lay  charges  on  him  to  sweep  the 
whole  concern  to  Gehenna.  However,  having  chosen  a  pen 
and  stripped  away  the  feathered  top  in  a  brief  spasm  of 
finger-fury — only  finger-fury,  his  face  was  placid — he  dashed 
off  a  batch  of  answers,  sealed  them,  and  then  went  out  and 
walked  through  the  mill :  on  coming  back,  he  sat  down  to 
read  his  newspaper. 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  129 

The  contents  seemed  not  absorbingly  interesting ;  he 
more  than  once  laid  it  across  his  knee,  folded  his  arms,  and 
gazed  into  the  fire  ;  he  occasionally  turned  his  head  towards 
the  window ;  he  looked  at  intervals  at  his  watch :  in  short, 
his  mind  appeared  pre-occupied.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking 
of  the  beauty  of  the  weather — for  it  was  a  fine  and  mild 
morning  for  the  season — and  wishing  to  be  out  in  the  fields 
enjoying  it.  The  door  of  his  counting-house  stood  wide 
open,  the  breeze  and  sunshine  entered  freely ;  but  the  first 
visitant  brought  no  spring  perfume  on  its  wings,  only  an 
occasional  sulphur-puff  from  the  soot-thick  column  of  smoke 
rushing  sable  from  the  gaunt  mill-chimney. 

A  dark-blue  apparition  (that  of  Joe  Scott,  fresh  from  a 
dyeing  vat)  appeared  momentarily  at  the  open  door,  uttered 
the  words,  '  He's  corned,  sir,'  and  vanished. 

Mr.  Moore  raised  not  his  eyes  from  the  paper.  A  large 
man,  broad-shouldered  and  massive-limbed,,  clad  in  fustian 
garments  and  grey-worsted  stockings,  entered,  who  was 
received  with  a  nod,  and  desired  to  take  a  seat ;  which  he 
did,  making  the  remark — as  he  removed  his  hat  (a  very  bad 
one),  stowed  it  away  under  his  chair,  and  wiped  his  forehead 
with  a  spotted  cotton  handkerchief  extracted  from  the  hat- 
crown — that  it  was  '  raight  dahn  warm  for  Febewerry.' 
Mr.  Moore  assented :  at  least  he  uttered  some  slight  sound, 
which,  though  inarticulate,  might  pass  for  an  assent.  The 
visitor  now  carefully  deposited  in  the  corner  beside  him  an 
official-looking  staff  which  he  bore  in  his  hand ;  this  done, 
he  whistled,  probably  by  way  of  appearing  at  his  ease. 

'  You  have  what  is  necessary,  I  suppose  ?  '  said  Mr. 
Moore. 

'  Ay !  ay  !  all's  right.' 

He  renewed  his  whistling,  Mr.  Moore  his  reading  :  the 
paper  apparently  had  become  more  interesting.  Presently, 
however,  he  turned  to  his  cupboard,  which  was  within  reach 
of  his  long  arm,  opened  it  without  rising,  took  out  a  black 
bottle — the  same  he  had  produced  for  Malonc's  benefit-  a 
tumbler,  and  a  jug,  placed  them  on  the  table,  and  said  to 


130  SHIRLEY 

his  guest,  '  Help  yourself ;  there's  water  in  that  jar  in  the 
corner.' 

'  I  dunnut  knaw  that  there's  mich  need,  for  all  a  body  is 
dry '  (thirsty)  '  in  a  morning,'  said  the  fustian  gentleman, 
rising  and  doing  as  requested. 

'  Will  you  tak'  naught  yourseln,  Mr.  Moore  ? '  he  inquired, 
as  with  skilled  hand  he  mixed  a  portion,  and,  having  tested 
it  by  a  deep  draught,  sank  back  satisfied  and  bland  in  his 
seat.  Moore — chary  of  words — replied  by  a  negative  move- 
ment and  murmur. 

1  Yah'd  as  good,'  continued  his  visitor  ;  '  it  'uld  set  ye  up, 
wald  a  sup  o'  this  stuff.  Uncommon  good  Hollands !  ye 
get  it  fro'  furrin  parts,  I'se  think  ?  ' 

'Ay!' 

'  Tak'  my  advice,  and  try  a  glass  on't ;  them  lads  'at  's 
coming  '11  keep  ye  talking,  nob'dy  knows  how  long :  ye'll 
need  propping.' 

1  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Sykes  this  morning  ? '  inquired 
Moore. 

'  I  seed  him  a  hauf  an  hour — nay — happen  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  sin',  just  afore  I  set  off:  he  said  he  aimed  to  come 
here,  and  I  sudn't  wonder  but  ye'll  have  old  Helstone  too  ; 
I  see'd  'em  saddling  his  little  nag  as  I  passed  at  back  o'  t' 
Rectory.' 

The  speaker  was  a  true  prophet,  for  the  trot  of  a  little 
nag's  hoofs  were,  five  minutes  after,  heard  in  the  yard ;  it 
stopped,  and  a  well-known  nasal  voice  cried  aloud — '  Boy ' 
(probably  addressing  Harry  Scott,  who  usually  hung  about 
the  premises  from  nine  A.M.  to  five  P.M.),  '  take  my  horse  and 
lead  him  into  the  stable.' 

Helstone  came  in  marching  nimbly  and  erect,  looking 
browner,  keener,  and  livelier  than  usual. 

'  Beautiful  morning,  Moore :  how  do,  my  boy  ?  Ha ! 
Whom  have  we  here  ? '  (turning  to  the  personage  with  the 
staff).  '  Sugden  !  What!  you're  going  to  work  directly? 
On  my  word,  you  lose  no  time  :  but  I  come  to  ask  explana- 
tions :  your  message  was  delivered  to  me ;  are  you  sure 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  131 

you  are  on  the  right  scent  ?  How  do  you  mean  to  set  about 
the  business  ?  Have  you  got  a  warrant  ? ' 

'  Sugden  has.' 

'  Then  you  are  going  to  seek  him  now  !  I'll  accompany 
you.' 

'  You  will  be  spared  that  trouble,  sir ;  he  is  coming 
to  seek  me.  I'm  just  now  sitting  in  state,  waiting  his 
arrival.' 

'  And  who  is  it  ?     One  of  my  parishioners  ?  ' 

Joe  Scott  had  entered  unobserved ;  he  now  stood,  a 
most  sinister  phantom,  half  his  person  being  dyed  of  the 
deepest  tint  of  indigo,  leaning  on  the  desk.  His  master's 
answer  to  the  Eector's  question  was  a  smile  ;  Joe  took  the 
word  ;  putting  on  a  quiet  but  pawky  look,  he  said,  '  It's 
a  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Helstone  ;  a  gentleman  you  often 
speak  of.' 

'  Indeed  !  His  name,  Joe  ? — You  look  well  this  morn- 
ing.' 

'  Only  the  Eev.  Moses  Barraclough :  t'  tub  orator  you 
call  him  sometimes,  I  think.' 

'  Ah  ! '  said  the  Sector,  taking  out  his  snuff-box,  and  ad- 
ministering to  himself  a  very  long  pinch — '  Ah  !  couldn't  have 
supposed  it.  Why,  the  pious  man  never  was  a  workman  of 
yours,  Moore  ?  He's  a  tailor  by  trade.' 

'  And  so  much  the  worse  grudge  I  owe  him  for  inter- 
fering, and  setting  my  discarded  men  against  me.' 

'  And  Moses  was  actually  present  at  the  battle  of  Stilbro' 
Moor  ?  He  went  there — wooden  leg  and  all  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  sir,'  said  Joe  ;  '  he  went  there  on  horseback,  that 
his  leg  mightn't  be  noticed  :  he  was  the  captain  and  wore  a 
mask  ;  the  rest  only  had  their  faces  blacked.' 

1  And  how  was  he  found  out  ? ' 

'  I'll  tell  you,  sir,'  said  Joe  :  t'maister's  not  so  fond  of 
talking ;  I've  no  objections.  He  courted  Sarah,  Mr.  Moore's 
sarvant  lass,  and  so  it  seems  she  would  have  nothing  to  say 
to  him ;  she  either  didn't  like  his  wooden  leg,  or  she'd  some 
notion  about  his  being  a  hypocrite.  Happen  (for  women  is 


132  SHIBLEY 

queer  hands — we  may  say  that  amang  werseln  when  there's 
none  of  'em  nigh)  she'd  have  encouraged  him,  in  spite  of  his 
leg  and  his  deceit — just  to  pass  time  like  ;  I've  known  some 
on  'em  do  as  mich,  and  some  o*  t'  bonniest  and  mimmest- 
looking,  too — ay !  I've  seen  clean,  trim  young  things,  that 
looked  as  denty  and  pure  as  daisies,  and  wi'  time  a  body  fun* 
'em  out  to  be  nowt  but  stinging,  venomed  nettles.' 

'  Joe's  a  sensible  fellow,'  interjected  Helstone. 

'  Howsiver,  Sarah  had  another  string  to  her  bow  :  Fred 
Murgatroyd,  one  of  our  lads,  is  for  her,  and  as  women  judge 
men  by  their  faces— and  Fred  has  a  middling  face,  while 
Moses  is  none  so  handsome,  as  we  all  knaw — the  lass  took 
on  wi'  Fred.  A  two-three  months  sin',  Murgatroyd  and 
Moses  chanced  to  meet  one  Sunday  night ;  they'd  both  come 
lurking  about  these  premises  wi'  the  notion  of  counselling 
Sarah  to  tak'  a  bit  of  a  walk  wi'  them ;  they  fell  out,  had  a 
tussle,  and  Fred  was  worsted  :  for  he's  young  and  small,  and 
Barraclough,  for  all  he  has  only  one  leg,  is  almost  as  strong 
as  Sugden  there ;  indeed,  anybody  that  hears  him  roaring  at 
a  revival  or  a  love-feast  may  be  sure  he's  no  weakling.' 

'  Joe,  you're  insupportable,'  here  broke  in  Mr.  Moore. 
'  You  spin  out  your  explanation  as  Moses  spins  out  his  ser- 
mons. The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  Murgatroyd  was  jealous 
of  Barraclough ;  and  last  night,  as  he  and  a  friend  took 
shelter  in  a  barn  from  a  shower,  they  heard  and  saw  Moses 
conferring  with  some  associates  within.  From  their  discourse, 
it  was  plain  he  had  been  the  leader,  not  only  at  Stilbro'  Moor, 
but  in  the  attack  on  Sykes's  property:  moreover,  they  planned 
a  deputation  to  wait  on  me  this  morning,  which  the  tailor  is 
to  head,  and  which,  in  the  most  religious  and  peaceful  spirit, 
is  to  entreat  me  to  put  the  accursed  thing  out  of  my  tent.  I 
rode  over  to  Whinbury  this  morning,  got  a  constable  and  a 
warrant,  and  I  am  now  waiting  to  give  my  friend  the  re- 
ception he  deserves  ;  here,  meantime,  comes  Sykes  :  Mr.  Hel- 
stone, you  must  spirit  him  up  ;  he  feels  timid  at  the  thoughts 
of  prosecuting.' 

A  gig  was  heard  to  roll  into  the  yard  :  Mr.  Sykes  entered  ; 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  133 

a  tall,  stout  man  of  about  fifty,  comely  of  feature,  but  feeble 
of  physiognomy  :  he  looked  anxious. 

'  Have  they  been  ?  Are  they  gone  ?  Have  you  got  him  ? 
IB  it  over  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Not  yet,'  returned  Moore  with  phlegm.  '  We  are  waiting 
for  them.' 

'  They'll  not  come  ;  it's  near  noon  :  better  give  it  up  ;  it 
will  excite  bad  feeling— make  a  stir — cause  perhaps  fatal 
consequences.' 

'  You  need  not  appear,'  said  Moore.  '  I  shall  meet  them 
in  the  yard  when  they  come ;  you  can  stay  here.' 

'  But  my  name  must  be  seen  in  the  law  proceedings  :  a  wife 
and  family,  Mr.  Moore — a  wife  and  family  make  a  man 
cautious.' 

Moore  looked  disgusted.  '  Give  way,  if  you  please,"  said 
he ;  '  leave  me  to  myself ;  I  have  no  objection  to  act  alone  : 
only  be  assured  you  will  not  find  safety  in  submission  ;  your 
partner,  Pearson,  gave  way,  and  conceded,  and  forbore — 
well,  that  did  not  prevent  them  from  attempting  to  shoot 
him  in  his  own  house.' 

'  My  dear  sir,  take  a  little  wine  and  water,'  recommended 
Mr.  Helstone.  The  wine  and  water  was  Hollands  and  water, 
as  Mr.  Sykes  discovered  when  he  had  compounded  and 
swallowed  a  brimming  tumbler  thereof :  it  transfigured  him 
in  two  minutes,  brought  the  colour  back  to  his  face,  and  made 
him  at  least  wo?-c?-valiant.  He  now  announced  that  he  hoped 
he  was  above  being  trampled  on  by  the  common  people  ;  he 
was  determined  to  endure  the  insolence  of  the  working- 
classes  no  longer  ;  he  had  considered  of  it  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  all  lengths  ;  if  money  and  spirit  could  put  clown 
these  rioters,  they  should  be  put  down ;  Mr.  Moore  might 
do  as  he  liked,  but  he — Christie  Sykes — would  spend  his  last 
penny  in  law  before  he  would  be  beaten  :  he'd  settle  them,  or 
he'd  see. 

'  Take  another  glass,'  urged  Moore. 

Mr.  Sykes  didn't  mind  if  he  did  ;  this  was  a  cold  morning 
(Sugden  had  found  it  a  warm  one)  ;  it  was  necessary  to  bo 


134  BHIELEY 

careful  at  this  season  of  the  year — it  was  proper  to  take 
something  to  keep  the  damp  out ;  he  had  a  little  cough  already 
(here  he  coughed  in  attestation  of  the  fact) ;  something  of 
this  sort  (lifting  the  black  bottle)  was  excellent,  taken  medi- 
cinally (he  poured  the  physic  into  his  tumbler) ;  he  didn't 
make  a  practice  of  drinking  spirits  in  a  morning,  but  occa- 
sionally it  really  was  prudent  to  take  precautions. 

1  Quite  prudent,  and  take  them  by  all  means,'  urged  the 
host. 

Mr.  Sykes  now  addressed  Mr.  Helstone,  who  stood  on  the 
hearth,  his  shovel-hat  on  his  head,  watching  him  significantly 
with  his  little  keen  eyes. 

'  You,  sir,  as  a  clergyman,'  said  he,  '  may  feel  it  disagree- 
able to  be  present  amidst  scenes  of  hurry  and  flurry,  and,  I 
may  say,  peril :  I  daresay  your  nerves  won't  stand  it ;  you're 
a  man  of  peace,  sir,  but  we  manufacturers,  living  in  the  world, 
and  always  in  turmoil,  get  quite  belligerent.  Really,  there's 
an  ardour  excited  by  the  thoughts  of  danger  that  makes  my 
heart  pant.  When  Mrs.  Sykes  is  afraid  of  the  house  being 
attacked  and  broke  open — as  she  is  every  night — I  get  quite 
excited.  I  couldn't  describe  to  you,  sir,  my  feelings  :  really, 
if  anybody  was  to  come — thieves  or  anything — I  believe  I 
should  enjoy  it,  such  is  my  spirit.' 

The  hardest  of  laughs,  though  brief  and  low,  and  by  no 
means  insulting,  was  the  response  of  the  Rector.  Moore 
would  have  pressed  upon  the  heroic  mill-owner  a  third  tum- 
bler, but  the  clergyman,  who  never  transgressed,  nor  would 
suffer  others  in  his  presence  to  transgress  the  bounds  of 
decorum,  checked  him. 

'  Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Sykes  ?  '  he 
said,  and  Mr.  Sykes  assented ;  and  then  sat  and  watched  Joe 
Scott  remove  the  bottle  at  a  sign  from  Helstone,  with 
a  self-satisfied  simper  on  his  lips  and  a  regretful  glisten  in 
his  eye.  Moore  looked  as  if  he  should  have  liked  to  fool  him 
to  the  top  of  his  bent.  What  would  a  certain  young  kins- 
woman of  his  have  said  could  she  have  seen  her  dear,  good, 
great  Robert — her  Coriolanus — just  now  ?  Would  she  have 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  135 

acknowledged  in  that  mischievous,  sardonic  visage  the  same 
face  to  which  she  had  looked  up  with  such  love,  which  had 
bent  over  her  with  such  gentleness  last  night  ?  Was  that 
the  man  who  had  spent  so  quiet  an  evening  with  his  sister 
and  his  cousin — so  suave  to  one,  so  tender  to  the  other — 
reading  Shakspeare  and  listening  to  Ch^nier  ? 

Yes,  it  was  the  same  man,  only  seen  on  a  different  side ; 
a  side  Caroline  had  not  yet  fairly  beheld,  though  perhaps  she 
had  enough  sagacity  faintly  to  suspect  its  existence.  Well, 
Caroline  had,  doubtless,  her  defective  side  too  :  she  was 
human,  she  must,  then,  have  been  very  imperfect,  and  had  she 
seen  Moore  on  his  very  worst  side,  she  would  probably  have 
said  this  to  herself  and  excused  him.  Love  can  excuse  any- 
thing except  Meanness ;  but  Meanness  kills  Love,  cripples 
even  Natural  Affection  :  without  Esteem,  True  Love  cannot 
exist.  Moore  with  all  his  faults  might  be  esteemed  ;  for  he 
had  no  moral  scrofula  in  his  mind,  no  hopeless  polluting  taint, 
such,  for  instance,  as  that  of  falsehood ;  neither  was  he  the 
slave  of  his  appetites  ;  the  active  life  to  which  he  had  been 
born  and  bred  had  given  him  something  else  to  do  than  to 
join  the  futile  chase  of  the  pleasure-hunter  :  he  was  a  man 
undegraded,  the  disciple  of  Eeason,  not  the  votary  of  Sense. 
The  same  might  be  said  of  old  Helstone  :  neither  of  these  two 
would  look,  think,  or  speak  a  lie  ;  for  neither  of  them  had  the 
wretched  black  bottle,  which  had  just  been  put  away,  any 
charms  ;  both  might  boast  a  valid  claim  to  the  proud  title  of 
'  lord  of  the  creation,'  for  no  animal  vice  was  lord  of  them  : 
they  looked  and  were  superior  beings  to  poor  Sykes. 

A  sort  of  gathering  and  trampling  sound  was  heard  in  the 
yard,  and  then  a  pause.  Moore  walked  to  the  window, 
Helstone  followed ;  both  stood  on  one  side,  the  tall  junior 
behind  the  under-sized  senior,  looking  forth  carefully,  so 
that  they  might  not  be  visible  from  without  ;  their  sole  com- 
ment on  what  they  saw  was  a  cynical  smile  flashed  into  each 
other's  stern  eyes. 

A  flourishing  oratorical  cough  was  now  heard,  followed  by 
the  interjection,  '  Whisht !  '  designed,  as  it  seemed,  to  still  the 


136  SHIRLEY 

hum  of  several  voices.  Moore  opened  his  casement  an  inch 
or  two  to  admit  sound  more  freely. 

'  Joseph  Scott,'  began  a  snuffling  voice — Scott  was  standing 
sentinel  at  the  counting-house  door — '  might  we  inquire  if 
your  master  be  within,  and  is  to  be  spoken  to  ? ' 

'  He's  within,  ay  ! '  said  Joe,  nonchalantly. 

'  Would  you,  then,  if  you  please '  (emphasis  on  '  you '), 
1  have  the  goodness  to  tell  him  that  twelve  gentlemen  wants 
to  see  him.' 

'  He'd  happen  to  ax  what  for,'  suggested  Joe.  '  I  mught 
as  weel  tell  him  that  at  t'same  time.' 

'  For  a  purpose,'  was  the  answer.    Joe  entered. 

4  Please,  sir,  there's  twelve  gentlemen  wants  to  see  ye, 
"  for  a  purpose."  ' 

1  Good,  Joe ;  I'm  their  man.  Sugden,  come  when  I 
whistle.' 

Moore  went  out,  chuckling  dryly.  He  advanced  into  the 
yard,  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  the  other  in  his  waistcoat,  his 
cap  brim  over  his  eyes,  shading  in  some  measure  their  deep 
dancing  ray  of  scorn.  Twelve  men  waited  in  the  yard,  some 
in  their  shirt-sleeves,  some  in  blue  aprons  :  two  figured 
conspicuously  in  the  van  of  the  party.  One,  a  little  dapper 
strutting  man,  with  a  turned-up  nose ;  the  other,  a  broad- 
shouldered  fellow,  distinguished  no  less  by  his  demure  face 
and  cat-like,  trustless  eyes  than  by  a  wooden  leg  and  stout 
crutch :  there  was  a  kind  of  leer  about  his  lips,  he  seemed 
laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  some  person  or  thing,  his  whole  air 
was  anything  but  that  of  a  time  man. 

'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Barraclough,'  said  Moore  debonairly, 
for  him. 

'  Peace  be  unto  you  ! '  was  the  answer  :  Mr.  Barraclough 
entirely  closing  his  naturally  half-shut  eyes  as  he  delivered 
it. 

'  I'm  obliged  to  you  :  peace  is  an  excellent  thing ;  there's 
nothing  I  more  wish  for  myself ;  but  that  is  not  all  you 
have  to  say  to  me,  I  suppose  ?  I  imagine  peace  is  not  your 
purpose  ?  ' 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  137 

'As  to  our  purpose,'  began  Barraclough,  'it's  one  that 
may  sound  strange,  and  perhaps  foolish  to  ears  like  yours, 
for  the  childer  of  this  world  is  wiser  in  their  generation  than 
the  childer  of  light.' 

'  To  the  point,  if  you  please,  and  let  me  hear  what  it  is.' 

'  Ye'se  hear,  sir ;  if  I  cannot  get  it  off,  there's  eleven 
hehint  can  help  me.  It  is  a  grand  purpose,  and  '  (changing 
his  voice  from  a  half-sneer  to  a  whine)  '  it's  the  Looard's 
own  purpose,  and  that's  better.' 

'  Do  you  want  a  subscription  to  a  new  ranter's  chapel, 
Mr.  Barraclough  ?  Unless  your  errand  be  something  of  that 
sort,  I  cannot  see  what  you  have  to  do  with  it.' 

'  I  hadn't  that  duty  on  my  mind,  sir  ;  but  as  Providence 
has  led  ye  to  mention  the  subject,  I'll  make  it  i'  my  way  to 
tak'  ony  trifle  ye  may  have  to  spare  ;  the  smallest  contribu- 
tion will  be  acceptable.' 

With  that  he  doffed  his  hat,  and  held  it  out  as  a  begging- 
box  ;  a  brazen  grin  at  the  same  time  crossing  his  counte- 
nance. 

1  If  I  gave  you  sixpence,  you  would  drink  it.' 

Barraclough  uplifted  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  the 
whites  of  his  eyes,  evincing  in  the  gesture  a  mere  burlesque 
of  hypocrisy. 

'  You  seem  a  fine  fellow,'  said  Moore,  quite  coolly  and 
dryly ;  '  you  don't  care  for  showing  me  that  you  are  a 
double-dyed  hypocrite,  that  your  trade  is  fraud  :  you  expect, 
indeed,  to  make  me  laugh  at  the  cleverness  with  which  you 
play  your  coarsely  farcical  part,  while  at  the  same  time  you 
think  you  are  deceiving  the  men  behind  you.' 

Moses'  countenance  lowered ;  he  saw  he  had  gone  too 
far :  he  was  going  to  answer,  when  the  second  leader, 
impatient  of  being  hitherto  kept  in  the  background,  stepped 
forward.  This  man  did  not  look  like  a  traitor,  though  he 
had  an  exceedingly  self-confident  and  conceited  air. 

1  Mr.  Moore,'  commenced  he,  speaking  also  in  his  throat 
and  nose,  and  enunciating  each  word  very  slowly,  as  if  with 
a  view  to  giving  his  audience  time  to  appreciate  fully  the 


138  SHIRLEY 

uncommon  elegance  of  the  phraseology ;  '  it  might,  perhaps, 
justly  be  said  that  reason  rather  than  peace  is  our  purpose. 
We  come,  in  the  first  place,  to  request  you  to  hear  reason, 
and  should  you  refuse,  it  is  my  duty  to  warn  you,  in  very 
decided  terms,  that  measures  will  be  had  resort  to'  (he 
meant  recourse)  'which  will  probably  terminate  in — in 
bringing  you  to  a  sense  of  the  unwisdom,  of  the — the 
foolishness,  which  seems  to  guide  and  guard  your  perceedings 
as  a  tradesman  in  this  manufacturing  part  of  the  country. 
Hem !  .  .  .  .  sir,  I  would  beg  to  allude  that  as  a  furriner, 
coming  from  a  distant  coast,  another  quarter  and  hemi- 
sphere of  this  globe,  thrown,  as  I  may  say,  a  perfect  outcast 
on  these  shores — the  cliffs  of  Albion — you  have  not  that 
understanding  of  huz  and  wer  ways  which  might  conduce 
to  the  benefit  of  the  working-classes.  If,  to  come  at  once  to 
partic'lars,  you'd  consider  to  give  up  this  here  mi  In,  and  go 
without  further  protractions  straight  home  to  where  you 
belong,  it  'ud  happen  be  as  well.  I  can  see  naught  ageean 
such  a  plan.  What  hev  ye  to  say  tull  't,  lads  ?  '  turning 
round  to  the  other  members  of  the  deputation,  who  responded 
unanimously,  '  Hear,  hear  ! ' 

1  Brayvo,  Noah  o'  Tim's  ! '  murmured  Joe  Scott,  who 
stood  behind  Mr.  Moore.  '  Moses  '11  niver  beat  that — Cliffs 
o'  Albion,  and  t'  other  hemisphere  !  my  certy  !  Did  ye 
come  fro'  th'  Antarctic  Zone,  maister  ?  Moses  is  dished.' 

Moses,  however,  refused  to  be  dished ;  he  thought  he 
would  try  again.  Casting  a  somewhat  ireful  glance  at 
'  Noah  o'  Tim's,'  he  launched  out  in  his  turn  :  and  now  he 
spoke  in  a  serious  tone,  relinquishing  the  sarcasm  which  he 
found  had  not  answered. 

'  Or  iver  you  set  up  the  pole  o'  your  tent  amang  us,  Mr. 
Moore,  we  lived  i'  peace  and  quietness  ;  yea,  I  may  say,  in 
all  loving-kindness.  I  am  not  myself  an  aged  person  as  yet, 
but  I  can  remember  as  far  back  as  maybe  some  twenty  year, 
when  hand-labour  were  encouraged  and  respected,  arid  no 
mischief-maker  had  ventured  to  introduce  these  here 
machines,  which  is  so  pernicious.  NOW,  I'm  not  a  cloth- 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  139 

dresser  myself,  but  by  trade  a  tailor  ;  howsiver,  my  heart  is 
of  a  softish  natur' :  I'm  a  very  feeling  man,  and  when  I  see 
my  brethren  oppressed,  like  my  great  namesake  of  old,  I 
stand  up  for  'em  ;  for  which  intent,  I  this  day  speak  with 
you  face  to  face,  and  advises  you  to  part  wi'  your  infernal 
machinery,  and  tak'  on  more  hands.' 

'  What  if  I  don't  follow  your  advice,  Mr.  Barraclough  ?  ' 
'  The   Looard  pardon   you !     The    Looard   soften   your 
heart,  sir  I ' 

'  Are  you  in  connection  with  the  Wesleyans  now,  Mr. 
Barraclough  ? ' 

'  Praise  God !  Bless  His  Name !  I'm  a  joined 
Methody  ! ' 

'  Which  in  no  respect  prevents  you  from  being  at  the 
same  time  a  drunkard  and  a  swindler.  I  saw  you  one  night 
a  week  ago  laid  dead-drunk  by  the  roadside,  as  I  returned 
from  Stilbro'  market ;  and  while  you  preach  peace,  you 
make  it  the  business  of  your  life  to  stir  up  dissension.  You 
no  more  sympathise  with  the  poor  who  are  in  distress  than 
you  sympathise  with  me  :  you  incite  them  to  outrage  for 
bad  purposes  of  your  own ;  so  does  the  individual  called 
Noah  o'  Tim's.  You  two  are  restless,  meddling,  impudent 
scoundrels,  whose  chief  motive-principle  is  a  selfish  ambition, 
as  dangerous  as  it  is  puerile.  The  persons  behind  you  are 
some  of  them  honest  though  misguided  men ;  but  you  two 
I  count  altogether  bad.' 

Barraclough  was  going  to  speak. 

'  Silence  !  You  have  had  your  say,  and  now  I  will  have 
mine.  As  to  being  dictated  to  by  you,  or  any  Jack  Jem,  or 
Jonathan  on  earth,  I  shall  not  suffer  it  for  a  moment.  You 
desire  me  to  quit  the  country  :  you  request  me  to  part  with 
my  machinery  ;  in  case  I  refuse,  you  threaten  me.  I  do 
refuse — point-blank  !  Here  I  stay ;  and  by  this  mill  I 
stand;  and  into  it  will  I  convey  the  best  machinery  inventors 
can  furnish.  What  will  you  do  ?  The  utmost  you  can  do — 
and  this  you  will  never  dare  to  do— is  to  burn  down  my  mill, 
destroy  its  contents,  and  shoot  me.  What  then  ?  Suppose 


140  SHIBLEY 

that  building  was  a  ruin  and  I  was  a  corpse,  what  then  ? — 
you  lads  behind  these  two  scamps,  would  that  stop  invention 
or  exhaust  science  ? — Not  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  of 
time  !  Another  and  better  gig-mill  would  rise  on  the  ruins 
of  this,  and  perhaps  a  more  enterprising  owner  come  in  my 
place.  Hear  me ! — I'll  make  my  cloth  as  I  please,  and 
according  to  the  best  lights  I  have.  In  its  manufacture 
I  will  employ  what  means  I  choose.  Whoever,  after 
hearing  this,  shall  dare  to  interfere  with  me,  may  just 
take  the  consequences.  An  example  shall  prove  I'm  in 
earnest.' 

He  whistled  shrill  and  loud.  Sugden,  his  staff  and 
warrant,  came  on  to  the  scene. 

Moore  turned  sharply  to  Barraclough :  '  You  were  at 
Stilbro','  said  he ;  'I  have  proof  of  that.  You  were  on 
the  moor, — you  wore  a  mask, — you  knocked  down  one  of 
my  men  with  your  own  hand, — you  1  a  preacher  of  the 
Gospel !  Sugden,  arrest  him ! ' 

Moses  was  captured.  There  was  a  cry  and  a  rush  to 
rescue,  but  the  right  hand  which  all  this  while  had  lain 
hidden  in  Moore's  breast,  re-appearing,  held  out  a  pistol. 

'  Both  barrels  are  loaded,'  said  he.  '  I'm  quite  deter- 
mined ! — keep  off!  ' 

Stepping  backwards,  facing  the  foe  as  he  went,  he 
guarded  his  prey  to  the  counting-house.  He  ordered  Joe 
Scott  to  pass  in  with  Sugden  and  the  prisoner,  and  to  bolt 
the  door  inside.  For  himself,  he  walked  backwards  and 
forwards  along  the  front  of  the  mill,  looking  meditatively  on 
the  ground,  his  hand  hanging  carelessly  by  his  side,  but 
still  holding  the  pistol.  The  eleven  remaining  deputies 
watched  him  some  time,  talking  under  their  breath  to  each 
other  :  at  length  one  of  them  approached.  This  man  looked 
very  different  from  either  of  the  two  who  had  previously 
spoken  :  he  was  hard-f&voured,  but  modest,  and  manly 
looking. 

'  I've  not  much  faith  i'  Moses  Barraclough,'  said  he, '  and 
I  would  speak  a  word  to  you  myseln,  Mr.  Moore.  It's  out  o* 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  141 

no  ill-will  that  I  am  here,  for  my  part ;  it's  just  to  mak'  a  effort 
to  get  things  straightened,  for  they're  sorely  a  crooked.  Ye 
see  we're  ill  off — varry  ill  off :  wer  families  is  poor  and  pined. 
We're  thrown  out  o'  work  wi'  these  frames :  we  can  get 
naught  to  do  :  we  can  earn  nought.  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
Mun  we  say,  wisht !  and  lig  us  down  and  dee  ?  Nay :  I've 
no  grand  words  at  my  tongue's  end,  Mr.  Moore,  but  I  feel  that 
it  would  be  a  low  principle  for  a  reasonable  man  to  starve  to 
death  like  a  dumb  creatur' — I  will  n't  do't.  I'm  not  for 
shedding  blood  :  I'd  neither  kill  a  man  nor  hurt  a  man  ;  and 
I'm  not  for  pulling  down  mills  and  breaking  machines :  for, 
as  ye  say,  that  way  o'  going  on  '11  niver  stop  invention ;  but 
I'll  talk — I'll  mak'  as  big  a  din  as  ever  I  can.  Invention  may 
be  all  right,  but  I  know  it  isn't  right  for  poor  folks  to  starve. 
Them  that  governs  mun  find  a  way  to  help  us  :  they  mun 
mak'  fresh  orderations.  Ye'U  say  that's  hard  to  do — so 
mich  louder  mun  we  shout  out  then,  for  so  much  slacker  will 
t'  Parliament-men  be  to  set  on  to  a  tough  job.' 

1  Worry  the  Parliament-men  as  much  as  you  please,'  said 
Moore ;  '  but  to  worry  the  mill-owners  is  absurd ;  and  I,  for 
one,  won't  stand  it.' 

'  Ye're  a  raight  hard  'un  ! '  returned  the  workman.  '  Will 
n't  ye  gie  us  a  bit  o'  time  ? — Will  n't  ye  consent  to  mak'  your 
changes  rather  more  slowly  ?  ' 

'  Am  I  the  whole  body  of  clothiers  in  Yorkshire  ?  Answer 
me  that ! ' 

1  Ye're  yourseln.' 

'  And  only  myself :  and  if  I  stopped  by  the  way  an  instant, 
while  others  are  rushing  on,  I  should  be  trodden  down.  If 
I  did  as  you  wish  me  to  do,  I  should  be  bankrupt  in  a  month, 
and  would  my  bankruptcy  put  bread  into  your  hungry  chil- 
dren's mouths  ?  William  Farren,  neither  to  your  dictation, 
nor  to  that  of  any  other,  will  I  submit.  Talk  to  me  no  more 
about  machinery ;  I  will  have  my  own  way.  I  shall  get  new 
frames  in  to-morrow.— If  you  broke  these,  I  would  still  get 
more.  I'll  never  give  in.' 

Here  the  mill-bell  rang  twelve  o'clock  :  it  was  the  dinner- 


142  SHIRLEY 

hour.  Moore  abruptly  turned  from  the  deputation  and  re- 
entered  his  counting-house. 

His  last  words  had  left  a  bad,  harsh  impression  :  he,  at 
least,  had  '  failed  in  the  disposing  of  a  chance  he  was  lord  of.' 
By  speaking  kindly  to  William  Farren — who  was  a  very 
honest  man,  without  envy  or  hatred  of  those  more  happily 
circumstanced  than  himself ;  thinking  it  no  hardship  and  no 
injustice  to  be  forced  to  live  by  labour ;  disposed  to  be 
honourably  content  if  he  could  but  get  work  to  do — Moore 
might  have  made  a  friend.  It  seemed  wonderful  how  he 
could  turn  from  such  a  man  without  a  conciliatory  or  a  sym- 
pathising expression.  The  poor  fellow's  face  looked  haggard 
with  want :  he  had  the  aspect  of  a  man  who  had  not  known 
what  it  was  to  live  in  comfort  and  plenty  for  weeks,  perhaps 
months  past ;  and  yet  there  was  no  ferocity,  no  malignity  in 
his  countenance :  it  was  worn,  dejected,  austere,  but  still 
patient.  How  could  Moore  leave  him  thus,  with  the  words 
'  I'll  never  give  in,'  and  not  a  whisper  of  good-will,  or  hope,  or 
aid? 

Farren,  as  he  went  home  to  his  cottage — once,  in  better 
times,  a  decent,  clean,  pleasant  place,  but  now,  though  still 
clean,  very  dreary,  because  so  poor — asked  himself  this 
question.  He  concluded  that  the  foreign  mill-owner  was  a 
selfish,  an  unfeeling,  and,  he  thought,  too,  a  foolish  man.  It 
appeared  to  him  that  emigration,  had  he  only  the  means  to 
emigrate,  would  be  preferable  to  service  under  such  a  master. 
He  felt  much  cast  down — almost  hopeless. 

On  his  entrance,  his  wife  served  out,  in  orderly  sort,  such 
dinner  as  she  had  to  give  him  and  the  bairns ;  it  was  only 
porridge,  and  too  little  of  that.  Some  of  the  younger  children 
asked  for  more  when  they  had  done  their  portion — an  appli- 
cation which  disturbed  William  much  :  while  his  wife  quieted 
them  as  well  as  she  could,  he  left  his  seat  and  went  to  the 
door.  He  whistled  a  cheery  stave,  which  did  not,  however, 
prevent  a  broad  drop  or  two  (much  more  like  the  '  first  of  a 
thunder-shower'  than  those  which  oozed  from  the  wound  of 
the  gladiator)  from  gathering  on  the  lids  of  his  grey  eyes,  and 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  143 

plashing  thence  to  the  threshold.  He  cleared  his  vision  with 
his  sleeve,  and  the  melting  mood  over,  a  very  stern  one 
followed. 

He  still  stood  brooding  in  silence,  when  a  gentleman  in 
black  came  up — a  clergyman,  it  might  be  seen  at  once  ;  but 
neither  Helstone,  nor  Malone,  nor  Donne,  nor  Sweeting.  He 
might  be  forty  years  old ;  he  was  plain-looking,  dark- 
complexioned,  and  already  rather  grey-haired.  He  stooped 
a  little  in  walking.  His  countenance,  as  he  came  on,  wore 
an  abstracted  and  somewhat  doleful  air ;  but,  in  approaching 
Farren,  he  looked  up,  and  then  a  hearty  expression  illuminated 
the  pre-occupied,  serious  face. 

'  Is  it  you,  William  ?    How  are  you  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Middling,  Mr.  Hall :  how  are  ye  ?  Will  ye  step  in  and 
rest  ye  ? ' 

Mr.  Hall,  whose  name  the  reader  has  seen  mentioned 
before  (and  who,  indeed,  was  vicar  of  Nunnely,  of  which 
parish  Farren  was  a  native,  and  from  whence  he  had  removed 
but  three  years  ago  to  reside  in  Briarfield,  for  the  convenience 
of  being  near  Hollow's-mill,  where  he  had  obtained  work), 
entered  the  cottage,  and,  having  greeted  the  good  wife  and 
the  children,  sat  down.  He  proceeded  to  talk  very  cheerfully 
about  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed  since  the  family 
quitted  his  parish,  the  changes  which  had  occurred  since  ;  he 
answered  questions  touching  his  sister  Margaret,  who  was 
inquired  after  with  much  interest ;  he  asked  questions  in  his 
turn,  and  at  last,  glancing  hastily  and  anxiously  round 
through  his  spectacles  (he  wore  spectacles,  for  he  was  short- 
sighted) at  the  bare  room,  and  at  the  meagre  and  wan  faces 
of  the  circle  about  him — for  the  children  had  come  round 
his  knee,  and  the  father  and  mother  stood  before  him  — 
he  said,  abruptly, — '  And  how  are  you  all  ?  How  do  you 
get  on  ? ' 

Mr.  Hall,  be  it  remarked,  though  an  accomplished  scholar, 
not  only  spoke  with  a  strong  northern  accent,  but,  on  occa- 
sion, used  freely  north-country  expressions. 

'  We  get  on  poorly,'  said  William  :  '  we're  all  out  of  work. 


144  SHIBLEY 

I've  selled  most  o'  t'  household  stuff,  as  ye  may  see  ;   and 
what  we're  to  do  next,  God  knows." 

'  Has  Mr.  Moore  turned  you  off  ? ' 

'  He  has  turned  us  off ;  and  I've  sich  an  opinion  of  him 
now,  that  I  think,  if  he'd  tak'  me  on  again  to-morrow,  I 
wouldn't  work  for  him.' 

'It  is  not  like  you  to  say  so,  William.' 

'  I  know  it  isn't ;  but  I'm  getting  different  to  mysel' :  I 
feel  I  am  changing.  I  wadn't  heed,  if  t'  bairns  and  t'  wife 
had  enough  to  live  on;  but  they're  pinched—  they're 
pined 

'  Well,  my  lad,  and  so  are  you ;  I  see  you  are.  These  are 
grievous  times ;  I  see  suffering  wherever  I  turn.  William, 
sit  down  ;  Grace,  sit  down  ;  let  us  talk  it  over.' 

And  in  order  the  better  to  talk  it  over,  Mr.  Hall 
lifted  the  least  of  the  children  on  to  his  knee,  and  placed  his 
hand  on  the  head  of  the  next  least ;  but  when  the  small 
things  began  to  chatter  to  him,  he  bid  them  '  Whist ! '  and, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  grate,  he  regarded  the  handful  of  embers 
which  burnt  there  very  gravely. 

1  Sad  times  ! '  he  said,  '  and  they  last  long.  It  is  the  wil 
of  God  :  His  will  be  done !  but  He  tries  us  to  the  utmost.' 

Again  he  reflected. 

'  You've  no  money,  William,  and  you've  nothing  you  could 
sell  to  raise  a  small  sum  ? ' 

'  No :  I've  selled  t'  chest  o'  drawers,  and  t'  clock,  and  t' 
bit  of  a  mahogany  stand,  and  t'  wife's  bonny  tea-tray  and  set 
o'  cheeney  'at  she  brought  for  a  portion  when  we  were  wed.' 

'  And  if  somebody  lent  you  a  pound  or  two,  could  you 
make  any  good  use  of  it  ?  Could  you  get  into  a  new  way  of 
doing  something  ? ' 

Farren  did  not  answer  ;  but  his  wife  said  quickly,  '  Ay, 
I'm  sure  he  could,  sir ;  he's  a  very  contriving  chap,  is  our 
William.  If  he'd  two  or  three  pounds,  he  could  begin  selling 
stuff.' 

'  Could  you,  William  ? ' 

'  Please   God,'  returned  William,  deliberately,  '  I  could 


NOAH  AND  MOSES  145 

buy  groceries,  and  bits  o*  tapes,  and  thread,  and  what  I 
thought  would  sell,  and  I  could  begin  hawking  at  first.' 

'  And  you  know,  sir,'  interposed  Grace,  '  you're  sure 
William  would  neither  drink,  nor  idle,  nor  waste  in  any  way. 
He's  my  husband,  and  I  shouldn't  praise  him  ;  but  I  will 
say,  there's  not  a  soberer,  honester  man  i'  England  nor  he  is.' 

1  Well,  I'll  speak  to  one  or  two  friends,  and  I  think  I  can 
promise  to  let  him  have  51.  in  a  day  or  two :  as  a  loan,  ye 
mind,  not  a  gift :  he  must  pay  it  back.' 

'  I  understand,  sir :  I'm  quite  agreeable  to  that.' 

'  Meantime,  there's  a  few  shillings  for  you,  Grace,  just  to 
keep  the  pot  boiling  till  custom  comes.  Now,  bairns,  stand 
up  in  a  row  and  say  your  catechism,  while  your  mother  goes 
and  buys  some  dinner  :  for  you've  not  had  much  to-day,  I'll 
be  bound.  You  begin,  Ben.  What  is  your  name  ? ' 

Mr.  Hall  stayed  till  Grace  came  back ;  then  he  hastily 
took  his  leave,  shaking  hands  with  both  Farren  and  his  wife: 
just  at  the  door,  he  said  to  them  a  few  brief  but  very 
earnest  words  of  religious  consolation  and  exhortation :  with 
a  mutual  '  God  bless  you,  sir  ! '  '  God  bless  you,  my  friends ! ' 
they  separated. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BBIARMAINS 

MESSRS.  HELSTONE  AND  SYKES  began  to  be  extremely  jocose 
and  congratulatory  with  Mr.  Moore  when  he  returned  to 
them  after  dismissing  the  deputation;  he  was  so  quiet, 
however,  under  their  compliments  upon  his  firmness,  &c., 
and  wore  a  countenance  so  like  a  still  dark  day,  equally 
beamless  and  breezeless,  that  the  Eector,  after  glancing 
shrewdly  into  his  eyes,  buttoned  up  his  felicitations  with  his 
coat,  and  said  to  Sykes,  whose  senses  were  not  acute 
enough  to  enable  him  to  discover  unassisted  where  his 
presence  and  conversation  were  a  nuisance  : — '  Come,  sir : 
your  road  and  mine  lie  partly  together :  had  we  not  better 
bear  each  other  company  ?  We'll  bid  Moore  good-morning, 
and  leave  him  to  the  happy  fancies  he  seems  disposed  to 
indulge.' 

1  And  where  is  Sugden  ?  '  demanded  Moore,  looking  up. 

'  Ah,  ha !  '  cried  Helstone.  '  I've  not  been  quite  idle 
while  you  were  busy.  I've  been  helping  you  a  little  :  I 
flatter  myself,  not  injudiciously.  I  thought  it  better  not  to 
lose  time  ;  so,  while  you  were  parleying  with  that  down- 
looking  gentleman — Fan-en  I  think  his  name  is, — I  opened 
this  back  window,  shouted  to  Murgatroyd,  who  was  in  the 
stable,  to  bring  Mr.  Sykes's  gig  round;  then  I  smuggled 
Sugden  and  brother  Moses — wooden  leg  and  all — through 
the  aperture,  and  saw  them  mount  the  gig  (always  with  our 


BEIARMAINS  147 

good  friend  Sykes's  permission,  of  course).  Sugden  took  the 
reins — he  drives  like  Jehu,  and  in  another  quarter  of  an 
hour,  Barraclough  will  be  safe  in  Stilbro'  jail.' 

'  Very  good  :  thank  you,'  said  Moore, '  and  good-morning, 
gentlemen,'  he  added,  and  so  politely  conducted  them  to  the 
door  and  saw  them  clear  of  his  premises. 

He  was  a  taciturn,  serious  man  the  rest  of  the  day :  he 
did  not  even  bandy  a  repartee  with  Joe  Scott ;  who,  for  his 
part,  said  to  his  master  only  just  what  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  progress  of  business,  but  looked  at  him  a 
good  deal  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  frequently  came  to 
poke  the  counting-house  fire  for  him,  and  once,  as  he  was 
locking  up  for  the  day  (the  mill  was  then  working  short 
time,  owing  to  the  slackness  of  trade),  observed  that  it  was 
a  grand  evening,  and  he  '  could  wish  Mr.  Moore  to  take  a 
bit  of  a  walk  up  th'  Hollow  ;  it  would  do  him  good.' 

At  this  recommendation,  Mr.  Moore  burst  into  a  short 
laugh,  and  after  demanding  of  Joe  what  all  this  solicitude 
meant,  and  whether  he  took  him  for  a  woman  or  a  child, 
seized  the  keys  from  his  hand,  and  shoved  him  by  the 
shoulders  out  of  his  presence.  He  called  him  back,  however, 
ere  he  reached  the  yard-gate. 

1  Joe,  do  you  know  those  Farrens  ?  They  are  not  well 
off,  1  suppose  ? ' 

'  They  cannot  be  well  off,  sir,  when  they've  not  had  work 
as  a  three  month.  Ye'd  see  yoursel'  'at  William's  sorely 
changed, — fair  pared  :  they've  selled  most  o'  t'  stuff  out  o' 
th'  house.' 

'  He  was  not  a  bad  workman  ? ' 

1  Ye  never  had  a  better,  sir,  sin'  ye  began  trade.' 

'  And  decent  people — the  whole  family  ? ' 

'  Niver  dacenter  :  th'  wife's  a  raight  cant  body,  and  as 

clean !  ye  mught  eat  your  porridge  off  th'  house  floor  : 

they're  sorely  corned  down.  I  wish  William  could  get  a  job 
as  gardener  or  summat  i'  that  way ;  he  understands  garden- 
ing weel.  He  once  lived  wi'  a  Scotchman  that  tached  him 
the  mysteries  o'  that  craft,  as  they  say.' 


148  SHIRLEY 

1  Now,  then,  you  can  go,  Joe ;  you  need  not  stand  there 
staring  at  me.' 

'  Ye've  no  orders  to  give,  sir  ? ' 

1  None,  but  for  you  to  take  yourself  off/ 

Which  Joe  did  accordingly. 


Spring  evenings  are  often  cold  and  raw,  and  though  this 
had  been  a  fine  day,  warm  even  in  the  morning  and  meridian 
sunshine,  the  air  chilled  at  sunset,  the  ground  crisped,  and 
ere  dusk  a  hoar  frost  was  insidiously  stealing  over  growing 
grass  and  unfolding  bud.  It  whitened  the  pavement  in  front 
of  Briarmains  (Mr.  Yorke's  residence),  and  made  silent 
havoc  among  the  tender  plants  in  his  garden,  and  on  the 
mossy  level  of  his  lawn.  As  to  that  great  tree,  strong- 
trunked  and  broad-armed,  which  guarded  the  gable  nearest 
the  road,  it  seemed  to  defy  a  spring-night  frost  to  harm  its 
still  bare  boughs ;  and  so  did  the  leafless  grove  of  walnut- 
trees  rising  tall  behind  the  house. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  moonless  if  starry  night,  lights  from 
windows  shone  vividly :  this  was  no  dark  or  lonely  scene, 
nor  even  a  silent  one.  Briarmains  stood  near  the  highway  ; 
it  was  rather  an  old  place,  and  had  been  built  ere  that  high- 
way was  cut,  and  when  a  lane  winding  up  through  fields 
was  the  only  path  conducting  to  it.  Briarfield  lay  scarce  a 
mile  off ;  its  hum  was  heard,  its  glare  distinctly  seen. 
Briar-chapel,  a  large,  new,  raw,  Wesleyan  place  of  worship, 
rose  but  a  hundred  yards  distant ;  and,  as  there  was  even 
now  a  prayer-meeting  being  held  within  its  walls,  the 
illumination  of  its  windows  cast  a  bright  reflection  on  the 
road,  while  a  hymn  of  a  most  extraordinary  description, 
such  as  a  very  Quaker  might  feel  himself  moved  by  the 
spirit  to  dance  to,  roused  cheerily  all  the  echoes  of  the 
vicinage.  The  words  were  distinctly  audible  by  snatches : 
here  is  a  quotation  or  two  from  different  strains;  for  the 
singers  passed  jauntily  from  hymn  to  hymn  and  from  tune 
to  tune,  with  an  ease  and  buoyancy  all  their  own  : — 


BBIAEMAINS  149 

Oh  I  who  can  explain 

This  struggle  for  life, 
This  travail  and  pain, 

This  trembling  and  strife  ? 
Plague,  earthquake,  and  famine, 

And  tumult  and  war, 
The  wonderful  coming 

Of  Jesus  declare ! 

For  every  fight 

Is  dreadful  and  loud, — 
The  warrior's  delight 

Is  slaughter  and  blood ; 
His  foes  overturning, 

Till  all  shall  expire, — 
And  this  is  with  burning, 

And  fuel,  and  fire ! 

Here  followed  an  interval  of  clamorous  prayer,  accom- 
panied by  fearful  groans.  A  shout  of  '  I've  found  liberty  !  ' 
'  Doad  o'  Bill's  has  fun'  liberty  ! '  rang  from  the  chapel,  and 
out  all  the  assembly  broke  again  : — 

What  a  mercy  is  this ! 

What  a  heaven  of  bliss ! 
How  unspeakably  happy  am  I ! 

Gather'd  into  the  fold, 

With  thy  people  enroll'd, 
With  thy  people  to  live  and  to  die  ! 

Oh,  the  goodness  of  God 

In  employing  a  clod 
His  tribute  of  glory  to  raise ; 

His  standard  to  bear, 

And  with  triumph  declare 
His  unspeakable  riches  of  grace ! 

Oh,  the  fathomless  love, 

That  has  deign'd  to  approve 
And  prosper  the  work  of  my  hands  ; 

With  my  pastoral  crook, 

I  went  over  the  brook, 
And  behold  I  am  spread  into  bands  ! 


150  SH1KLM 

Who,  I  ask  in  amaze, 

Hath  begotten  me  these  ? 
And  inquire  from  what  quarter  they  came ; 

My  full  heart  it  replies, 

They  are  born  from  the  skies, 
And  gives  glory  to  God  and  the  Lamb ! 

The  stanza  which  followed  this,  after  another  and  longer 
interregnum  of  shouts,  yells,  ejaculations,  frantic  cries, 
agonized  groans,  seemed  to  cap  the  climax  of  noise  and 

zeal : — 

Sleeping  on  the  brink  of  sin, 
Tophet  gaped  to  take  us  in ; 
Mercy  to  our  rescue  flew, — 
Broke  the  snare,  and  brought  us  through. 

Here,  as  in  a  lion's  den, 
Undevour'd  we  still  remain  ; 
Pass  secure  the  watery  flood, 
Hanging  on  the  arm  of  God. 

Here 


(Terrible,  most  distracting  to  the  ear  was  the  strained 
shout  in  which  the  last  stanza  was  given.) 

Here  we  raise  our  voices  higher, 
Shout  in  the  refiner's  fire  ; 
Clap  our  hands  amidst  the  flame, 
Glory  give  to  Jesus'  name  ! 

The  roof  of  the  chapel  did  not  fly  off;  which  speaks 
volumes  in  praise  of  its  solid  slating. 

But  if  Briar-chapel  seemed  alive,  so  also  did  Briarmains  : 
though  certainly  the  mansion  appeared  to  enjoy  a  quieter 
phase  of  existence  than  the  temple ;  some  of  its  windows 
too  were  aglow :  the  lower  casements  opened  upon  the 
lawn,  curtains  concealed  the  interior,  and  partly  obscured 
the  ray  of  the  candles  which  lit  it,  but  they  did  not  entirely 
muffle  the  sound  of  voice  and  laughter.  We  are  privileged 
to  enter  that  front-door,  and  to  penetrate  to  the  domestic 
sanctum. 


BRIARMAINS  151 

It  is  not  the  presence  of  company  which  makes  Mr. 
Yorke's  habitation  lively,  for  there  is  none  within  it  save  his 
own  family,  and  they  are  assembled  in  that  farthest  room  to 
the  right,  the  back  parlour. 

This  is  the  usual  sitting-room  of  an  evening.  Those 
windows  would  be  seen  by  daylight  to  be  of  brilliantly- 
stained  glass — purple  and  amber  the  predominant  hues, 
glittering  round  a  gravely- tinted  medallion  in  the  centre  of 
each,  representing  the  suave  head  of  William  Shakspeare, 
and  the  serene  one  of  John  Milton.  Some  Canadian  views 
hang  on  the  walls — green  forest  and  blue  water  scenery — 
and  in  the  midst  of  them  blazes  a  night-eruption  of 
Vesuvius  ;  very  ardently  it  glows,  contrasted  with  the  cool 
foam  and  azure  of  cataracts,  and  the  dusky  depths  of  woods. 

The  fire  illuminating  this  room,  reader,  is  such  as,  if  you 
be  a  southern,  you  do  not  often  see  burning  on  the  hearth  of 
a  private  apartment ;  it  is  a  clear,  hot,  coal  fire,  heaped 
high  in  the  ample  chimney.  Mr.  Yorke  will  have  such  fh-es 
even  in  warm  summer  weather :  he  sits  beside  it  with  a 
book  in  his  hand,  a  little  round  stand  at  his  elbow  support- 
ing a  candle— but  he  is  not  reading,  he  is  watching  his 
children.  Opposite  to  him  sits  his  lady — a  personage  whom 
I  might  describe  minutely,  but  I  feel  no  vocation  to  the  task. 
I  see  her,  though,  very  plainly  before  me :  a  large  woman 
of  the  gravest  aspect,  care  on  her  front  and  on  her  shoulders 
— but  not  overwhelming,  inevitable  care — rather  the  sort  of 
voluntary,  exemplary  cloud  and  burden  people  ever  carry 
who  deem  it  their  duty  to  be  gloomy.  Ah,  woll-a-day  !  Mrs. 
Yorke  had  that  notion,  and  grave  as  Saturn  she  was, 
morning,  noon,  and  night ;  and  hard  things  she  thought  of 
any  unhappy  wight — especially  of  the  female  sex — who 
dared  in  her  presence  to  show  the  light  of  a  gay  heart  on  a 
sunny  countenance.  In  her  estimation,  to  be  mirthful  was 
to  be  profane ;  to  be  cheerful  was  to  be  frivolous  :  she  drew 
no  distinctions.  Yet  she  was  a  very  good  wife,  a  very 
careful  mother,  looked  after  her  children  unceasingly,  was 
sincerely  attached  10  her  husband  ;  only,  the  wor^t  of  it  was, 


152  SHIRLEY 

if  she  could  have  had  her  will,  she  would  not  have  permitted 
him  to  have  any  friend  in  the  world  beside  herself :  all  his 
relations  were  insupportable  to  her,  and  she  kept  them  at 
arm's  length. 

Mr.  Yorke  and  she  agreed  perfectly  well  ;  yet  he  was 
naturally  a  social,  hospitable  man — an  advocate  for  family 
unity — and  in  his  youth,  as  has  been  said,  he  liked  none  but 
lively,  cheerful  women.  Why  he  chose  her — how  they 
contrived  to  suit  each  other,  is  a  problem  puzzling  enough, 
but  which  might  soon  be  solved  if  one  had  time  to  go  into 
the  analysis  of  the  case.  Suffice  it  here  to  say,  that  Yorke 
had  a  shadowy  as  well  as  a  sunny  side  to  his  character,  and 
that  his  shadowy  side  found  sympathy  and  affinity  in  the 
whole  of  his  wife's  uniformly  overcast  nature.  For  the  rest, 
she  was  a  strong-minded  woman ;  never  said  a  weak  or 
a  trite  thing ;  took  stern,  democratic  views  of  society,  and 
rather  cynical  ones  of  human  nature ;  considered  herself 
perfect  and  safe,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  all  wrong.  Her 
main  fault  was  a  brooding,  eternal,  immitigable  suspicion  of 
all  men,  things,  creeds,  and  parties :  this  suspicion  was  a 
mist  before  her  eyes,  a  false  guide  in  her  path,  wherever  she, 
looked,  wherever  she  turned. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  the  children  of  such  a  pair  were 
not  likely  to  turn  out  quite  ordinary,  common-place  beings ; 
and  they  were  not.  You  see  six  of  them,  reader :  the 
youngest  is  a  baby  on  the  mother's  knee  ;  it  is  all  her  own 
yet — and  that  one  she  has  not  yet  begun  to  doubt,  suspect, 
condemn ;  it  derives  its  sustenance  from  her,  it  hangs  on 
her,  it  clings  to  her,  it  loves  her  above  everything  else  in  the 
world :  she  is  sure  of  that,  because,  as  it  lives  by  her,  it 
cannot  be  otherwise,  therefore  she  loves  it. 

The  next  two  are  girls,  Rose  and  Jessie :  they  are  both 
now  at  their  father's  knee  ;  they  seldom  go  near  their 
mother,  except  when  obliged  to  do  so.  Rose,  the  elder,  ia 
twelve  years  old  ;  she  is  like  her  father — the  most  like  him 
of  the  whole  group — but  it  is  a  granite  head  copied  in  ivory ; 
all  is  softened  in  colour  and  Iin6.  Yorke  himself  has  a 


BBIABMAINS  153 

harsh  face  ;  his  daughter's  is  not  harsh,  neither  is  it  quite 
pretty  ;  it  is  simple — childlike  in  feature  ;  the  round  cheeks 
bloom :  as  to  the  gray  eyes,  they  are  otherwise  than  child- 
like— a  serious  soul  lights  them — a  young  soul  yet,  but  it 
will  mature,  if  the  body  lives ;  aud  neither  father  nor 
mother  have  a  spirit  to  compare  with  it.  Partaking  of  the 
essence  of  each,  it  will  one  day  be  better  than  either — 
stronger,  much  purer,  more  aspiring.  Eose  is  a  still,  and 
sometimes  a  stubborn  girl  now  :  her  mother  wants  to  make 
of  her  such  a  woman  as  she  is  herself — a  woman  of  dark 
and  dreary  duties— and  Eose  has  a  mind  full-set,  thick- 
sown  with  the  germs  of  ideas  her  mother  never  knew.  It 
is  agony  to  her  often  to  have  these  ideas  trampled  on  and 
repressed.  She  has  never  rebelled  yet ;  but  if  hard  driven, 
she  will  rebel  one  day,  and  then  it  will  be  once  for  all. 
Eose  loves  her  father  :  her  father  does  not  rule  her  with  a 
rod  of  iron ;  he  is  good  to  her.  He  sometimes  fears  she  will 
not  live,  so  bright  are  the  sparks  of  intelligence  which,  at 
moments,  flash  from  her  glance,  and  gleam  in  her  language. 
This  idea  makes  him  often  sadly  tender  to  her. 

He  has  no  idea  that  little  Jessie  will  die  young,  she  is  so 
gay  and  chattering,  arch— original  even  now  :  passionate 
when  provoked,  but  most  affectionate  if  caressed  ;  by  turns 
genfcle  and  rattling  ;  exacting  yet  generous  ;  fearless — of  her 
mother,  for  instance,  whose  irrationally  hard  and  strict  rule 
she  has  often  defied — yet  reliant  on  any  who  will  help  her. 
Jessie,  with  her  little  piquant  face,  engaging  prattle,  and 
winning  ways,  is  made  to  be  a  pet ;  and  her  father's  pet  she 
accordingly  is.  It  is  odd  that  the  doll  should  resemble  her 
mother  feature  by  feature,  as  Eose  resembles  her  father, 
and  yet  the  physiognomy — how  different ! 

Mr.  Yorke,  if  a  magic  mirror  were  now  held  before  you, 
and  if  therein  were  shown  you  your  two  daughters  as  they 
will  be  twenty  years  from  this  night,  what  would  you 
think  ?  The  magic  mirror  is  here  :  you  shall  learn  their 
destinies — and  first  that  of  your  little  life,  Jessie. 

Do  you  know  this  place?     No,  you  never  saw  it ;  but 


154  SHIELEY 

you  recognise  the  nature  of  these  trees,  this  foliage — the 
cypress,  the  willow,  the  yew.  Stone  crosses  like  these  are 
not  unfamiliar  to  you,  nor  are  these  dim  garlands  of  ever- 
lasting flowers.  Here  is  the  place  ;  gresn  sod  and  a  gray 
marble  headstone — Jessie  sleeps  below.  She  lived  through 
an  April  day ;  much  loved  was  she,  much  loving.  She 
often,  in  her  brief  life,  shed  tears,  she  had  frequent  sorrows  ; 
she  smiled  between,  gladdening  whatever  saw  her.  Her 
death  was  tranquil  and  happy  in  Rose's  guardian  arms,  for 
Eose  had  been  her  stay  and  defence  through  many  trials : 
the  dying  and  the  watching  English  girls  were  at  that  hour 
alone  in  a  foreign  country,  and  the  soil  of  that  country  gave 
Jessie  a  grave. 

Now,  behold  Eose,  two  years  later.  The  crosses  and 
garlands  looked  strange,  but  the  hills  and  woods  of  this 
landscape  look  still  stranger.  This,  indeed,  is  far  from 
England  ;  remote  must  be  the  shores  which  wear  that  wild, 
luxuriant  aspect.  This  is  some  virgin  solitude :  unknown 
birds  flutter  round  the  skirts  of  that  forest ;  no  European 
river  this,  on  whose  banks  Eose  sits  thinking.  The  little 
quiet  Yorkshire  girl  is  a  lonely  emigrant  in  some  region  of 
the  southern  hemisphere.  Will  she  ever  come  back  ? 

The  three  eldest  of  the  family  are  all  boys  :  Matthew, 
Mark,  and  Martin.  They  are  seated  together  in  that  corner, 
engaged  in  some  game.  Observe  their  three  heads  :  much 
alike  at  a  first  glance  ;  at  a  second,  different ;  at  a  third, 
contrasted.  Dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  red-cheeked,  are  the 
whole  trio  ;  small  English  features  they  all  possess  ;  all  own 
a  blended  resemblance  to  sire  and  mother,  and  yet  a  distinc- 
tive physiognomy,  mark  of  a  separate  character,  belongs  to 
each. 

I  shall  not  say  much  about  Matthew,  the  first-born  of 
the  house ;  though  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  gazing  at  him 
long,  and  conjecturing  what  qualities  that  visage  hides  or 
indie. ites.  He  is  no  plain-looking  boy  :  that  jet-black  hair, 
white  brow,  high-coloured  cheek,  those  quick,  dark  eyes,  are 
good  points  iu  their  way.  How  is  it  that,  look  as  long  as 


BRIABMAINS  155 

you  will,  there  is  but  one  object  in  the  room,  and  that  the 
most  sinister,  to  which  Matthew's  face  seems  to  bear  an 
affinity,  and  of  which,  ever  and  anon,  it  reminds  you 
strangely — the  eruption  of  Vesuvius.  Flame  and  shadow 
seem  the  component  parts  of  that  lad's  soul :  no  daylight  in 
it,  and  no  sunshine,  and  no  pure,  cool  moonbeam  ever  shone 
there.  He  has  an  English  frame,  but,  apparently,  not  an 
English  mind  :  you  would  say,  an  Italian  stiletto  in  a 
sheath  of  British  workmanship.  He  is  crossed  in  the  game 
— look  at  his  scowl.  Mr.  Yorke  sees  it,  and  what  does  he 
say  ?  In  a  low  voice,  he  pleads  :  '  Mark  and  Martin,  don't 
auger  your  brother."  And  this  is  ever  the  tone  adopted  by 
both  parents.  Theoretically,  they  decry  partiality ;  no 
rights  of  primogeniture  are  to  be  allowed  in  that  house ;  but 
Matthew  is  never  to  be  vexed,  never  to  be  opposed :  they 
avert  provocation  from  him  as  assiduously  as  they  would 
avert  fire  from  a  barrel  of  gunpowder.  '  Concede,  con- 
ciliate,' is  their  motto  wherever  he  is  concerned.  The 
republicans  are  fast  making  a  tyrant  of  their  own  flesh  and 
blood.  This  the  younger  scions  know  and  feel,  and  at  heart 
they  all  rebel  against  the  injustice :  they  cannot  read  their 
parents'  motives ;  they  only  see  the  difference  of  treatment. 
The  dragon's  teeth  are  already  sown  amongst  Mr.  Yorke's 
young  olive  branches  :  discord  will  one  day  be  the  harvest. 
Mark  is  a  bonnie -looking  boy,  the  most  regular-featured 
of  the  family ;  he  is  exceedingly  calm ;  his  smile  is 
shrewd ;  he  can  say  the  driest,  most  cutting  things  in  the 
quietest  of  tones.  Despite  his  tranquillity,  a  somewhat 
heavy  brow  speaks  temper,  and  reminds  you  that  the 
smoothest  waters  are  not  always  the  safest.  Besides,  he  is 
too  still,  unmoved,  phlegmatic,  to  be  happy.  Life  will  never 
have  much  joy  in  it  for  Mark  :  by  the  time  he  is  five-aud- 
twenty,  he  will  wonder  why  people  ever  laugh,  and  think  all 
fools  who  seem  merry.  Poetry  will  not  exist  for  Mark, 
either  in  literature  or  in  life ;  its  best  effusions  will  sound  to 
him  mere  rant  and  jargon  :  enthusiasm  will  be  his  aversion 
and  contempt.  Mark  will  have  no  youth  :  while  he  looks 


156  SHIRLEY 

juvenile  and  blooming,  he  will  be  already  middle-aged  in 
inind.  His  body  is  now  fourteen  years  of  age,  but  his  soul 
is  already  thirty. 

Martin,  the  youngest  of  the  three,  owns  another  nature. 
Life  may,  or  may  not,  be  brief  for  him  :  but  it  will  certainly 
be  brilliant :  he  will  pass  through  all  its  illusions,  half 
believe  in  them,  wholly  enjoy  them,  then  outlive  them. 
That  boy  is  not  handsome — not  so  handsome  as  either  of 
his  brothers  :  he  is  plain  ;  there  is  a  husk  upon  him,  a  dry 
shell,  and  he  will  wear  it  till  he  is  near  twenty ;  then  he 
will  put  it  off:  about  that  period,  he  will  make  himself 
handsome.  He  will  wear  uncouth  manners  till  that  age, 
perhaps  homely  garments ;  but  the  chrysalis  will  retain  the 
power  of  transfiguring  itself  into  the  butterfly,  and  such 
transfiguration  will,  in  due  season,  take  place.  For  a  space 
he  will  be  vain,  probably  a  downright  puppy,  eager  for 
pleasure  and  desirous  of  admiration  ;  athirst,  too,  for  know- 
ledge. He  will  want  all  that  the  world  can  give  him,  both 
of  enjoyment  and  lore  ;  he  will,  perhaps,  take  deep  draughts 
at  each  fount.  That  thirst  satisfied — what  next  ?  I  know 
not.  Martin  might  be  a  remarkable  man  :  whether  he  will 
or  not,  the  seer  is  powerless  to  predict  :  on  that  subject, 
thore  has  been  no  open  vision. 

Take  Mr.  Yorke's  family  in  the  aggregate,  there  is  as 
much  mental  power  in  those  six  young  heads,  as  much 
originality,  as  much  activity  and  vigour  of  brain,  as — divided 
amongst  half  a  dozen  common-place  broods — would  give  to 
each  rather  more  than  an  average  amount  of  sense  and 
capacity.  Mr.  Yorke  knows  this,  and  is  proud  of  his  race. 
Yorkshire  has  such  families  here  and  there  amongst  her  hills 
and  wolds — peculiar,  racy,  vigorous ;  of  good  blood  and 
strong  brain ;  turbulent  somewhat  in  the  piide  of  their 
strength,  and  intractable  in  the  force  of  their  native  powers; 
wanting  polish,  wanting  consideration,  wanting  docility, 
hut  sound,  spirited,  and  true-bred  as  the  eagle  on  the  cliff  or 
the  steed  in  the  steppe. 

A  low  tap  is  heard  at  the  parlour  door ;  the  boys  have 


BBIAEMAINS  157 

been  making  such  a  noise  over  their  game,  and  little  Jessie, 
besides,  has  been  singing  so  sweet  a  Scotch  song  to  her 
father — who  delights  in  Scotch  and  Italian  songs,  and  has 
taught  his  musical  little  daughter  some  of  the  best — that  the 
ring  at  the  outer  door  was  not  observed. 

'  Come  in ! '  says  Mrs.  Yorke,  in  that  conscientiously  con- 
strained and  solemnized  voice  of  hers,  which  ever  modulates 
itself  to  a  funereal  dreariness  of  tone,  though  the  subject  it 
is  exercised  upon  be  but  to  give  orders  for  the  making  of  a 
pudding  in  the  kitchen,  to  bid  the  boys  hang  up  their  caps 
in  the  hall,  or  to  call  the  girls  to  their  sewing  :  '  Come  in ! ' 
And  in  came  Eobert  Moore. 

Moore's  habitual  gravity,  as  well  as  his  abstemiousness 
(for  the  case  of  spirit-decanters  is  never  ordered  up  when  he 
pays  an  evening  visit),  has  so  far  recommended  him  to  Mrs. 
Yorke,  that  she  has  not  yet  made  him  the  subject  of  private 
animadversions  with  her  husband  :  she  has  not  yet  found 
out  that  he  is  hampered  by  a  secret  intrigue  which  prevents 
him  from  marrying,  or  that  he  is  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  ; 
discoveries  which  she  made  at  an  early  date  after  marriage 
concerning  most  of  her  husband's  bachelor  friends,  and 
excluded  them  from  her  board  accordingly ;  which  part  of 
her  conduct,  indeed,  might  be  said  to  have  its  just  and 
sensible,  as  well  as  its  harsh  side. 

'  Well,  is  it  you  ? '  she  says  to  Mr.  Moore,  as  he  comes 
up  to  her  and  gives  his  hand.  '  What  are  you  roving  about 
at  this  time  of  night  for?  You  should  be  at  home.' 

1  Can  a  single  man  be  said  to  have  a  home,  madam  ?  '  he 


1  Pooh  ! '  says  Mrs.  Yorke,  who  despises  conventional 
smoothness  quite  as  much  as  her  husband  does,  and  practises 
it  as  little,  and  whose  plain  speaking,  on  all  occasions,  is 
carried  to  a  point  calculated,  sometimes,  to  awaken  admira- 
tion, but  oftener  alarm — '  Pooh  !  you  need  not  talk  nonsense 
to  me  ;  a  single  man  can  have  a  home  if  he  likes.  Pray, 
does  not  your  sister  make  a  home  for  you  ?  ' 

'  Not  she,'  joined  in  Mr.  Yorke.     '  Hortense  is  an  honest 


158 

lass  ;  but  when  I  was  Eobert's  age,  I  had  five  or  six  sisters, 
all  as  decent  and  proper  as  she  is  ;  but  you  see,  Hesther,  for 
all  that,  it  did  not  hinder  me  from  looking  out  for  a  wife.' 

'  And  sorely  he  has  repented  marrying  me,'  added  Mrs. 
Yorke,  who  liked  occasionally  to  crack  a  dry  jest  against 
matrimony,  even  though  it  should  be  at  her  own  expense. 
'  He  has  repented  it  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  Eobert  Moore, 
as  you  may  well  believe  when  you  see  his  punishment, 
(here  she  pointed  to  her  children).  '  Who  would  burden 
themselves  with  such  a  set  of  great,  rough  lads,  as  those,  if 
they  could  help  it  ?  It  is  not  only  bringing  them  into  the 
world,  though  that  is  bad  enough,  but  they  are  all  to  feed, 
to  clothe,  to  rear,  to  settle  in  life.  Young  sir,  when  you  feel 
tempted  to  marry,  think  of  our  four  sons  and  two  daughters, 
and  look  twice  before  you  leap." 

'  I  am  not  tempted  now,  at  any  rate  :  I  think  these  are 
not  times  for  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage.' 

A  lugubrious  sentiment  of  this  sort  was  sure  to  obtain 
Mrs.  Yorke's  approbation :  she  nodded  and  groaned 
acquiescence  ;  but  in  a  minute  she  said  : — '  I  make  little 
account  of  the  wisdon  of  a  Solomon  of  your  age  ;  it  will  be 
upset  by  the  first  fancy  that  crosses  you.  Meantime,  sit 
down,  sir :  you  can  talk,  I  suppose,  as  well  sitting  as 
standing  ? ' 

This  was  her  way  of  inviting  her  guest  to  take  a  chair : 
he  had  no  sooner  obeyed  her,  than  little  Jessie  jumped  from 
her  father's  knee,  and  ran  into  Mr.  Moore's  arms,  which 
were  very  promptly  held  out  to  receive  her. 

'  You  talk  of  marrying  him,'  said  she  to  her  mother,  quite 
indignantly,  as  she  was  lifted  lightly  to  his  knee,  '  and  he  is 
married  now,  or  as  good  :  he  promised  that  I  should  be  his 
wife  last  summer,  the  first  time  he  saw  me  in  my  new  white 
frock  and  blue  sash.  Didn't  he,  father?'  (These  children 
were  not  accustomed  to  say  papa  and  mamma  ;  their  mother 
would  allow  no  such  '  namby-pamby.') 

1  Ay,   my  little  lassie,   he  promised ;  I'll  bear  witness. 


BRIAEMAINS  159 

But  make  him  say  it  over  again  now,  Jessie  :  such  as  he  are 
only  false  loons.' 

'  He  is  not  false :  he  is  too  bonnie  to  be  false/  said 
Jessie,  looking  up  to  her  tall  sweetheart  with  the  fullest  con- 
fidence in  his  faith. 

'  Bonnie  ! '  cried  Mr.  Yorke  ;  '  that's  the  reason  that  he 
should  be,  and  proof  that  he  is — a  scoundrel.' 

'  But  he  looks  too  sorrowful  to  be  false,'  here  interposed  a 
quiet  voice  from  behind  the  father's  chair.  '  If  he  were 
always  laughing,  I  should  think  he  forgot  promises  soon, 
but  Mr.  Moore  never  laughs.' 

'  Your  sentimental  buck  is  the  greatest  cheat  of  all,  Rose,' 
remarked  Mr.  Yorke. 

'  He's  not  sentimental,'  said  Rose. 

Mr.  Moore  turned  to  her  with  a  little  surprise,  smiling 
at  the  same  time. 

1  How  do  you  know  I  am  not  sentimental,  Rose  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  heard  a  lady  say  you  were  not.' 

'Voila,  qui  devient  inte'ressant !  '  exclaimed  Mr.  Yorke, 
hitching  his  chair  nearer  the  fire.  '  A  lady  !  That  has  quite 
a  romantic  twang  :  we  must  guess  who  it  is.  Rosy,  whisper 
the  name  low  to  your  father  :  don't  let  him  hear.' 

1  Rose,  don't  be  too  forward  to  talk,'  here  interrupted  Mrs. 
Yorke,  in  her  usual  kill-joy  fashion  ;  '  nor  Jessie  either  :  it 
becomes  all  children,  especially  girls,  to  be  silent  in  the 
presence  of  their  elders.1 

'  Why  have  we  tongues,  then  ? '  asked  Jessie,  pertly ; 
while  Rose  only  looked  at  her  mother  with  an  expression 
that  seemed  to  say,  she  should  take  that  maxim  in,  and 
think  it  over  at  her  leisure.  After  two  minutes'  grave 
deliberation,  she  asked, — '  And  why  especially  girls,  mother  ?  ' 

'  Firstly,  because  I  say  so  :  and,  secondly,  because  discre- 
tion and  reserve  is  a  girl's  best  wisdom.' 

'  My  dear  madam,'  observed  Moore,  '  what  you  say 
is  excellent :  it  reminds  me,  indeed,  of  my  dear  sister's 
observations  ;  but  really  it  is  not  applicable  to  these  little 


160  SHIRLEY 

ones.  Let  Rose  and  Jessie  talk  to  me  freely,  or  my  chief 
pleasure  in  coming  here  is  gone.  I  like  their  prattle  :  it 
does  me  good.' 

'  Does  it  not  ? '  asked  Jessie.  '  More  good  than  if  the 
rough  lads  came  round  you  :  you  call  them  rough,  mother, 
yourself.' 

1  Yes,  mignonne,  a  thousand  times  more  good :  I  have 
rough  lads  enough  about  me  all  day  long,  poulet.' 

'  There  are  plenty  of  people,'  continued  she,  '  who  take 
notice  of  the  boys :  all  my  uncles  and  aunts  seem  to  think 
their  nephews  better  than  their  nieces  ;  and  when  gentlemen 
come  here  to  dine,  it  is  always  Matthew,  and  Mark,  and 
Martin,  that  are  talked  to,  and  never  Rose  and  me.  Mr. 
Moore  is  our  friend,  and  we'll  keep  him  :  but  mind,  Rose, 
he's  not  so  much  your  friend  as  he  is  mine  :  he  is  my 
particular  acquaintance  ;  remember  that ! '  And  she  held 
up  her  small  hand  with  an  admonitory  gesture. 

Rose  was  quite  accustomed  to  be  admonished  by  that 
small  hand ;  her  will  daily  bent  itself  to  that  of  the  impe- 
tuous little  Jessie  :  she  was  guided — overruled  by  Jessie  in  a 
thousand  things.  On  all  occasions  of  show  and  pleasure, 
Jessie  took  the  lead,  and  Rose  fell  quietly  into  the  back- 
ground ;  whereas,  when  the  disagreeables  of  life — its  work 
and  privations  were  in  question,  Rose  instinctively  took  upon 
her,  in  addition  to  her  own  share,  what  she  could  of  her 
sister's.  Jessie  had  already  settled  it  in  her  mind  that  she, 
when  she  was  old  enough,  was  to  be  married ;  Rose,  she 
decided,  must  be  an  old  maid,  to  live  with  her,  look  after 
her  children,  keep  her  house.  This  state  of  things  is  not 
uncommon  between  two  sisters,  where  one  is  plain  and  the 
other  pretty ;  but  in  this  case,  if  there  was  a  difference  in 
external  appearance,  Rose  had  the  advantage  :  her  face  was 
more  regular-featured  than  that  of  the  piquant  little  Jessie. 
Jessie,  however,  was  destined  to  possess,  along  with  sprightly 
intelligence  and  vivacious  feeling,  the  gift  of  fascination,  the 
power  to  charm  when,  where,  and  whom  she  would.  Rose 
•was  to  ha,ve  a  fine,  generous  soul,  a  noble  intellect  profoundly 


BRIARMAINS  161 

cultivated,  a  heart  as  true  as  steel,  but  the  manner  to  attract 
was  not  to  be  hers. 

4  Now,  Rose,  tell  me  the  name  of  this  lady  who  denied 
that  I  was  sentimental,'  urged  Mr.  Moore. 

Rose  had  no  idea  of  tantalization,  or  she  would  have 
held  him  a  while  in  doubt ;  she  answered,  briefly  : — '  I  can't  : 
I  don't  know  her  name.' 

4  Describe  her  to  me  :  what  was  she  like  ?  Where  did 
you  see  her  ?  ' 

'  When  Jessie  and  I  went  to  spend  the  day  at  Whinbury 
with  Kate  and  Susan  Pearson,  who  were  just  come  home 
from  school,  there  was  a  party  at  Mrs.  Pearson's,  and  some 
grown-up  ladies  were  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room 
talking  about  you.' 

'  Did  you  know  none  of  them  ?  ' 

'  Hannah,  and  Harriet,  and  Dora,  and  Mary  Sykes.' 

4  Good.     Were  they  abusing  me,  Rosy  ?  ' 

'  Some  of  them  were  :  they  called  you  a  misanthrope  :  I 
remember  the  word — I  looked  for  it  in  the  dictionary  when 
I  came  home  :  it  means  a  man-hater.' 

'  What  besides  ?  ' 

'  Hannah  Sykes  said  you  were  a  solemn  puppy.' 

'  Better  ! '  cried  Mr.  Yorke,  laughing.  '  Oh  !  excellent  1 
Hannah— that's  the  one  with  the  red  hair :  a  fine  girl,  but 
half-witted.' 

4  She  has  wit  enough  for  me,  it  appears,'  said  Moore.  '  A 
solemn  puppy,  indeed  !  Well,  Rose,  go  on.' 

'  Miss  Pearson  said  she  believed  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
affectation  about  you,  and  that  with  your  dark  hair  and  pale 
face,  you  looked  to  her  like  some  sort  of  a  sentimental 
noodle." 

Again  Mr.  Yorke  laughed  :  Mrs.  Yorke  even  joined  in 
this  time.  '  You  see  in  what  esteem  you  are  held  behind 
your  back,'  said  she  ;  '  yet  I  believe  that  Miss  Pearson  would 
like  to  catch  you  :  she  set  her  cap  at  you  when  you  first 
came  into  the  country,  old  as  she  is.' 

4  And  who  contradicted  her,  Rosy  ?  '  inquired  Moore. 


162  SHIRLEY 

'  A  lady  whom  I  don't  know,  because  she  never  visits 
here,  though  I  see  her  every  Sunday  at  church ;  she  sits  in 
the  pew  near  the  pulpit.  I  generally  look  at  her,  instead  of 
looking  at  my  prayer-book  ;  for  she  is  like  a  picture  in  our 
dining-room,  that  woman  with  the  dove  in  her  hand:  at 
least  she  has  eyes  like  it,  and  a  nose  too,  a  straight  nose, 
that  makes  all  her  face  look,  somehow,  what  I  call  clear.' 

'  And  you  don't  know  her  ! '  exclaimed  Jessie,  in  a  tone 
of  exceeding  surprise.  '  That's  so  like  Eose.  Mr.  Moore,  I 
often  wonder  in  what  sort  of  a  world  my  sister  lives  ;  I  am 
sure  she  does  not  live  all  her  time  in  this  :  one  is  continually 
finding  out  that  she  is  quite  ignorant  of  some  little  matter 
which  everybody  else  knows.  To  think  of  her  going 
solemnly  to  church  every  Sunday,  and  looking  all  service- 
time  at  one  particular  person,  and  never  so  much  as  asking 
that  person's  name  !  She  means  Caroline  Helstone,  the 
Rector's  niece :  I  remember  all  about  it.  Miss  Helstone 
was  quite  angry  with  Anne  Pearson  :  she  said,  "  Robert 
Mooi'e  is  neither  affected  nor  sentimental ;  you  mistake  his 
character  utterly,  or  rather  not  one  of  you  here  knows  any- 
thing about  it."  Now,  shall  I  tell  you  what  she  is  like  ?  I 
can  tell  what  people  are  like,  and  how  they  are  dressed, 
better  than  Rose  can.' 

'  Let  us  hear.' 

'  She  is  nice  ;  she  is  fair ;  she  has  a  pretty  white  slender 
thi-oat ;  she  has  long  curls,  not  stiff  ones,  they  hang  loose 
and  soft,  their  colour  is  brown  but  not  dark ;  she  speaks 
quietly,  with  a  clear  tone  ;  she  never  makes  a  bustle  in 
moving  ;  she  often  wears  a  gray  silk  dress  ;  she  is  neat  all 
over  :  her  gowns,  and  her  shoes,  and  her  gloves  always  fit 
her.  She  is  what  I  call  a  lady,  and  when  I  am  as  tall  as 
she  is,  I  mean  to  bo  like  her.  Shall  I  suit  you  if  I  am  ? 
Will  you  really  marry  me  ?  ' 

Moore  stroked  Jessie's  hair  :  for  a  minute  he  seemed  as 
if  he  would  draw  her  nearer  to  him,  but  instead  he  put  her 
a  little  farther  off. 

'  Oh  !  you  won't  have  me  ?     You  push  me  away.' 


BKIABMAINS  163 

I  Why,  Jessie,  you  care  nothing  about  me :   you  never 
come  to  see  me  now  at  the  Hollow.' 

'  Because  you  don't  ask  me.' 

Hereupon,  Mr.  Moore  gave  both  the  little  girls  an  invita- 
tion to  pay  him  a  visit  next  day,  promising  that,  as  he  was 
going  to  Stilbro'  in  the  morning,  he  would  buy  them  each  a 
present,  of  what  nature  he  would  not  then  declare,  but  they 
must  come  and  see.  Jessie  was  about  to  reply,  when  one  of 
the  boys  unexpectedly  broke  in  : — 

I 1  know  that  Miss  Helstone  you  have  all  been  palavering 
about :  she's  an  ugly  girl.     I  hate  her  !     I  hate  all  women- 
ites.     I  wonder  what  they  were  made  for.' 

'  Martin  ! '  said  his  father — for  Martin  it  was — the  lad 
only  answered  by  turning  his  cynical  young  face,  half-arch, 
half-truculent,  towards  the  paternal  chair.  '  Martin,  my 
lad,  thou'rt  a  swaggering  whelp,  now ;  thou  wilt  some  day 
be  an  outrageous  puppy :  but  stick  to  those  sentiments  of 
thine.  See,  I'll  write  down  the  words  now  i'  my  pocket- 
book.'  (The  senior  took  out  a  morocco-covered  book,  and 
deliberately  wrote  therein.)  '  Ten  years  hence,  Martin,  if 
thou  and  I  be  both  alive  at  that  day,  I'll  remind  thee  of  that 
speech.' 

'  I'll  say  the  same  then :  I  mean  always  to  hate  women  : 
they're  such  dolls :  they  do  nothing  but  dress  themselves 
finely,  and  go  swimming  about  to  be  admired.  I'll  never 
marry  :  I'll  be  a  bachelor.' 

'  Stick  to  it !  stick  to  it !  Hesther  '  (addressing  his  wife), 
'  I  was  like  him  when  I  was  his  age,  a  regular  misogamist ; 
and,  behold  !  by  the  time  I  was  three -and-t wen ty — being 
then  a  tourist  in  France  and  Italy,  and  the  Lord  knows 
where  !— I  curled  my  hair  every  night  before  I  went  to  bed, 
and  wore  a  ring  i'  my  car,  and  would  have  worn  one  i'  my 
nose  if  it  had  been  the  fashion  — and  all  that  I  might  make 
mysel'  pleasing  and  charming  to  the  ladies.  Martin  will  do 
the  like.' 

'  Will  I?  Never  !  I've  more  sense.  What  a  Guy  you 
were,  father !  As  to  dressing,  I  make  this  vow  :  I'll  never 

7 


16i  SHIRLEY 

dress  more  finely  than  as  you  see  me  at  present.  Mr. 
Moore,  I'm  clad  in  blue  cloth  from  top  to  toe,  and  they 
laugh  at  me,  and  call  me  a  sailor  at  the  grammar-school.  I 
laugh  louder  at  them,  and  say  they  are  all  magpies  and 
parrots,  with  their  coats  one  colour,  and  their  waistcoats 
another,  and  their  trousers  a  third.  I'll  always  wear  blue 
cloth,  and  nothing  but  blue  cloth  :  it  is  beneath  a  human 
being's  dignity  to  dress  himself  in  particoloured  garments.' 

1  Ten  years  hence,  Martin,  no  tailor's  shop  will  have 
choice  of  colours  varied  enough  for  thy  exacting  taste ;  no 
perfumer's  stores  essences  exquisite  enough  for  thy  fastidious 
senses.' 

Martin  looked  disdain,  but  vouchsafed  no  further  reply. 
Meantime  Mark,  who  for  some  minutes  had  been  rummaging 
amongst  a  pile  of  books  on  a  side-table,  took  the  word.  He 
spoke  in  a  peculiarly  slow,  quiet  voice,  and  with  an  expres- 
sion of  still  irony  in  his  face  not  easy  to  describe. 

'  Mr.  Moore,'  said  he,  '  you  think  perhaps  it  was  a  com- 
pliment on  Miss  Caroline  Helstone's  part  to  say  you  were 
not  sentimental.  I  thought  you  appeared  confused  when 
my  sisters  told  you  the  words,  as  if  you  felt  flattered :  you 
turned  red,  just  like  a  certain  vain  little  lad  at  our  school, 
who  always  thinks  proper  to  blush  when  he  gets  a  rise  in 
the  class.  For  your  benefit,  Mr.  Moore,  I've  been  looking 
up  the  word  "  sentimental "  in  the  dictionary,  and  I  find  it 
to  mean,  "  tinctured  with  sentiment."  On  examining 
further,  "  sentiment "  is  explained  to  be,  thought,  idea, 
notion.  A  sentimental  man,  then,  is  one  who  has  thoughts, 
ideas,  notions  ;  an  unsentimental  man  is  one  destitute  of 
thought,  idea,  or  notion.' 

And  Mark  stopped :  he  did  not  smile,  he  did  not  look 
round  for  admiration  :  he  had  said  his  say,  and  was  silent. 

'  Ma  foi !  mon  ami,'  observed  Mr.  Moore  to  Yorke  ;  '  ce 
sont  vraiment  des  enfants  terribles,  que  les  votres  ! ' 

Rose,  who  had  been  listening  attentively  to  Mark's 
speech,  replied  to  him : — '  There  are  different  kinds  of 
thoughts,  ideas,  and  notions,'  said  she,  'good  and  bad: 


BEIAKMAINS  165 

sentimental  must  refer  to  the  bad,  or  Miss  Helstone  must 
have  taken  it  in  that  sense,  for  she  was  not  blaming  Mr. 
Moore  ;  she  was  defending  him.' 

'  That's  my  kind  little  advocate, '  said  Moore,  taking 
Eose's  hand. 

'  She  was  defending  him,'  repeated  Eose,  '  as  I  should 
have  done  had  I  been  in  her  place,  for  the  other  ladies  seemed 
to  speak  spitefully.' 

'  Ladies  always  do  speak  spitefully,'  observed  Martin ; 
'  it  is  the  nature  of  womenites  to  be  spiteful.' 

Matthew  now,  for  the  first  time,  opened  his  lips  : — '  What 
a  fool  Martin  is,  to  be  always  gabbling  about  what  he  does 
not  understand.' 

'  It  is  my  privilege,  as  a  freeman,  to  gabble  on  whatever 
subject  I  like,'  responded  Martin. 

'  You  use  it,  or  rather  abuse  it,  to  such  an  extent,' 
rejoined  the  elder  brother,  'that  you  prove  you  ought  to  have 
been  a  slave.' 

'  A  slave  !  a  slave  !  That  to  a  Yorke,  and  from  a  Yorke ! 
This  fellow,'  he  added,  standing  up  at  the  table,  and  pointing 
across  it  to  Matthew — '  this  fellow  forgets,  what  every 
cottier  in  Briarfield  knows,  that  all  born  of  our  house  have 
that  arched  instep  under  which  water  can  flow — proof  that 
there  has  not  been  a  slave  of  the  blood  for  three  hundred 
years.' 

'  Mountebank  !  '  said  Matthew. 

'  Lads,  be  silent ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Yorke.  '  Martin,  you 
are  a  mischief-maker  :  there  would  have  been  no  disturbance 
but  for  you.' 

'  Indeed  !  Is  that  correct  ?  Did  I  begin,  or  did  Matthew  ? 
Had  I  spoken  to  him  when  he  accused  me  of  gabbling  like  a 
fool ? ' 

'  A  presumptuous  fool ! '  repeated  Matthew. 

Here  Mrs.  Yorke  commenced  rocking  herself— rather  a 
portentous  movement  with  her,  as  it  was  occasionally 
followed,  especially  when  Matthew  was  worsted  in  a  conflict, 
by  a  fit  of  hysterics, 


166  SHIELEY 

'  I  don't  see  why  I  should  bear  insolence  from  Matthew 
Yorke,  or  what  right  he  has  to  use  bad  language  to  me,' 
observed  Martin. 

'  He  has  no  right,  my  lad ;  but  forgive  your  brother  until 
seventy  and  seven  times,'  said  Mr.  Yorke  soothingly. 

'  Always  alike,  and  theory  and  practice  always  adverse  1 ' 
murmured  Martin  as  he  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

'  Where  art  thou  going,  my  son  ? '  asked  the  father. 

'  Somewhere  where  I  shall  be  safe  from  insult :  if  in  this 
house  I  can  find  any  such  place.' 

Matthew  laughed  very  insolently  :  Martin  threw  a  strange 
look  at  him,  and  trembled  through  all  his  slight  lad's  frame, 
but  he  restrained  himself. 

'  I  suppose  there  is  no  objection  to  my  withdrawing? '  he 
inquired. 

'  No  ;  go,  my  lad  :  but  remember  not  to  bear  malice.' 

Martin  went,  and  Matthew  sent  another  insolent  laugh 
after  him.  Rose,  lifting  her  fair  head  from  Moore's  shoulder, 
against  which,  for  a  moment,  it  had  been  resting,  said,  as  she 
directed  a  steady  gaze  to  Matthew — '  Martin  is  grieved,  and 
you  are  glad ;  but  I  would  rather  be  Martin  than  you  :  I 
dislike  your  nature.' 

Here  Mr.  Moore,  by  way  of  averting,  or  at  least  escaping 
a  scene — which  a  sob  from  Mrs.  Yorke  warned  him  was 
likely  to  come  on — rose,  and  putting  Jessie  off  his  knee,  he 
kissed  her  and  Rose  ;  reminding  them,  at  the  same  time,  to 
be  sure  and  come  to  the  Hollow  in  good  time  to-morrow 
afternoon  :  then,  having  taken  leave  of  his  hostess,  he  said  to 
Mr.  Yorke—  'May  I  speak  a  word  with  you?'  and  was 
followed  by  him  from  the  room.  Their  brief  conference  took 
place  in  the  hall. 

'  Have  you  employment  for  a  good  workman  ? '  asked 
Moore. 

'  A  nonsense  question  in  these  times,  when  you  know  that 
every  master  has  many  good  workmen  to  whom  he  cannot 
give  full  employment.' 

'  You   must  oblige  me  by  taking  on  this  man,  if  possible.' 


BRiAfcMAlNS  167 

'  My  lad,  I  can  take  on  no  more  hands  to  oblige  all  Eng- 
land.' 

'  It  does  not  signify ;  I  must  find  him  a  place  somewhere.' 
'  Who  is  he  ? ' 
1  William  Farren.' 

'  I  know  William  ;  a  right-down  honest  man  is  William.' 
'  He  has  been  out  of  work  three  months  ;  he  has  a  large 
family  :  we  are  sure  they  cannot  live  without  wages  :  he  was 
one  of  a  deputation  of  cloth-dressers  who  came  to  me  this 
morning  to  complain  and  threaten.    William  did  not  threaten: 
he  only  asked  me  to  give  thorn  rather  more  time — to  make 
my  changes  more  slowly.      You  know  I  cannot  do  that ; 
straitened  on  all  sides  as  I  am,  I  have  nothing  for  it  but 
to  push  on.     I  thought  it  would  be  idle  to  palaver  long  with 
them.     I  sent  them  away,  after  arresting  a  rascal  amongst 
them,  whom  I  hope  to  transport — a  fellow  who  preaches  at 
the  chapel  yonder  sometimes.' 
'  Not  Moses  Barraclough  ?  ' 
'  Yes.' 

1  Ah  !  you've  arrested  him  ?  Good !  Then  out  of  a 
scoundrel  you're  going  to  make  a  martyr  :  you've  done  a  wise 
thing.' 

'  I've  done  a  right  thing.  Well,  the  short  and  the  long  of 
it  is,  I'm  determined  to  get  Farren  a  place,  and  I  reckon  on 
you  to  give  him  one.' 

'  This  is  cool,  however  !  '  exclaimed  Mr.  Yorke.  '  What 
right  have  you  to  reckon  on  me  to  provide  for  your  dismissed 
workmen?  What  do  I  know  about  your  Farren s  and  your 
Williams  ?  I've  heard  he's  an  honest  man  ;  but  am  I  to 
support  all  the  honest  men  in  Yorkshire  ?  You  may  say  that 
would  be  no  great  charge  to  undertake ;  but  great  or  little, 
I'll  none  of  it.' 

'  Come,  Mr.  Yorkc,  what  can  you  find  for  him  to  do?' 
'  I  find  !     You'll  make  me  use  language  I'm  not  accus- 
tomed to  use.     I  wish  you  would  go  home  -  here  is  the  door 
— set  off.' 

Moore  sat  down  on  one  of  the  hall  chairs. 


168  SHIELEY 

1  You  can't  give  him  work  in  your  mill— good —but  you 
have  land :  find  him  some  occupation  on  your  land,  Mr. 
Yorke.' 

I  Bob,  I  thought  you  cared  nothing  about  our  "  lourdauds 
de  paysans  "  ?  I  don't  understand  this  change.' 

I 1  do :   the  fellow  spoke  to  me  nothing  but  truth  and 
sense.     I  answered  him  just  as  roughly  as  I  did  the  rest,  who 
jabbered  mere  gibberish.     I  couldn't  make  distinctions  there 
and  then :  his  appearance  told  what  he  had  gone  through 
lately,  clearer  than  his  words :  but  where  is  the  use  of  ex- 
plaining ?     Let  him  have  work.' 

'  Let  him  have  it  yourself.  If  you  are  so  very  much  in 
earnest,  strain  a  point." 

1  If  there  was  a  point  left  in  my  affairs  to  strain,  I  would 
strain  it  till  it  cracked  again  ;  but  I  received  letters  this 
morning  which  show  me  pretty  nearly  where  I  stand,  and  it 
is  not  far  off  the  end  of  the  plank.  My  foreign  market,  at 
any  rate,  is  gorged.  If  there  is  no  change  -  if  there  dawns 
no  prospect  of  peace — if  the  Orders  in  Council  are  not,  at  least, 
suspended,  so  as  to  open  our  way  in  the  West — I  do  not  know 
where  I  am  to  turn.  I  see  no  more  light  than  if  I  were  sealed 
in  a  rock ;  so  that  for  me  to  pretend  to  offer  a  man  a  livelihood 
would  be  to  do  a  dishonest  thing.' 

'  Come,  let  us  take  a  turn  on  the  front :  it  is  a  starlight 
night,'  said  Mr.  Yorke. 

They  passed  out,  closing  the  front-door  after  them, 
and,  side  by  side,  paced  the  frost-white  pavement  to  and 

fro. 

'  Settle  about  Parren  at  once,'  urged  Mr.  Moore.  '  You 
have  large  fruit-gardens  at  Yorke  Mills :  he  is  a  good 
gardener  :  give  him  work  there.' 

'  Well,  so  be  it.  I'll  send  for  him  to-morrow,  and  we'll 
see.  And  now,  my  lad,  you're  concerned  about  the  condition 
of  your  affairs  ?  ' 

'  Yes  :  a  second  failure— which  I  may  delay,  but  which, 
at  this  moment,  I  see  no  way  finally  to  avert — would  blight 
the  name  of  Moore  completely ;  and  you  are  aware  I  had  fine 


BKIAKMAINS  169 

intentions  of  paying  off  every  debt,  and  re-establishing  the 
old  firm  on  its  former  basis.' 

'  You  want  capital—  that's  all  you  want.' 

'  Yes ;  but  you  might  as  well  say  that  breath  is  all  a  dead 
man  wants  to  live.' 

'  I  know — I  know  capital  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
and  if  you  were  a  married  man,  and  had  a  family,  like  me,  I 
should  think  your  case  pretty  nigh  desperate ;  but  the  young 
and  unencumbered  have  chances  peculiar  to  themselves.  I 
hear  gossip  now  and  then  about  your  being  on  the  eve  of 
marriage  with  this  miss  and  that ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  none 
of  it  true  ? ' 

'  You  may  well  suppose  that :  I  think  I  am  not  in  a  position 
to  be  dreaming  of  marriage.  Marriage  !  I  cannot  bear  the 
word  :  it  sounds  so  silly  and  Utopian.  I  have  settled  it 
decidedly  that  marriage  and  love  are  superfluities,  intended 
only  for  the  rich,  who  live  at  ease,  and  have  no  need  to  take 
thought  for  the  morrow  ;  or  desperations,  the  last  and  reck- 
less joy  of  the  deeply  wretched,  who  never  hope  to  rise  out  of 
the  slough  of  their  utter  povei'ty.' 

'  I  should  not  think  so  if  I  were  circumstanced  as  you  are  : 
I  should  think  I  could  very  likely  get  a  wife  with  a  few  thou- 
sands, who  would  suit  both  me  and  my  affairs.' 

'  I  wonder  where  ?  ' 

'  Would  you  try,  if  you  had  a  chance  ?  ' 

1 1  don't  know  :  it  depends  on — in  short  it  depends  on  many 
things.' 

'  Would  you  take  an  old  woman  ?  ' 

'  I'd  rather  break  stones  on  the  road.' 

'  So  would  I.     Would  you  take  an  ugly  one  ? ' 

'  Bah  !  I  hate  ugliness  and  delight  in  beauty  :  my  eyes 
and  heart,  Yorke,  take  pleasure  in  a  sweet,  young,  fair  face, 
as  they  are  repelled  by  a  grim,  rugged,  meagre  one  :  soft 
delicate  lines  and  hues  please — harsh  ones  prejudice  me.  I 
won't  have  an  ugly  wife.' 

'  Not  if  she  were  rich  ?  ' 

'  Not  if  she  were  dressed  in  gems.     I  could  not  love— I 


170  SHIELEY 

could  not  fancy — I  could  not  endure  her.  My  taste  must 
have  satisfaction,  or  disgust  would  break  out  in  despotism — 
or  worse — freeze  to  utter  iciness.' 

'  What,  Bob,  if  you  married  an  honest,  good-natured,  and 
wealthy  lass,  though  a  little  hard-favoured,  couldn't  you  put 
up  with  the  high  cheek-bones,  the  rather  wide  mouth,  and 
reddish  hair  ? ' 

'  I'll  never  try,  I  tell  you.  Grace  at  least  I  will  have,  and 
youth  and  symmetry — yes,  and  what  I  call  beauty.' 

'  And  poverty,  and  a  nursery  full  of  bairns  you  can  neither 
clothe  nor  feed,  and  very  soon  an  anxious  faded  mother—- 
and then  bankruptcy,  discredit — a  life-long  struggle.' 

'  Let  me  alone,  Yorke.' 

'  If  you  are  romantic,  Eobert,  and  especially  if  you  are 
already  in  love,  it  is  of  no  use  talking.' 

'  I  am  not  romantic.  I  am  stript  of  romance  as  bare  as 
the  white  tenters  in  that  field  are  of  cloth.' 

1  Always  use  such  figures  of  speech,  lad ;  I  can  under- 
stand them :  and  there  is  no  love-affair  to  disturb  your 
judgment  ? ' 

'  I  thought  I  had  said  enough  on  that  subject  before. 
Love  for  me  ?  Stuff ! ' 

'  Well,  then ;  if  you  are  sound  both  in  heart  and  head, 
there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  profit  by  a  good 
chance  if  it  offers  :  therefore,  wait  and  see.' 

'  You  are  quite  oracular,  Yorke.' 

'  I  think  I  am  a  bit  i'  that  line.  I  promise  ye  naught 
and  I  advise  ye  naught ;  but  I  bid  ye  keep  your  heart  up, 
and  be  guided  by  circumstances.' 

'  My  namesake  the  physician's  almanack  could  not  speak 
more  guardedly.' 

1  In  the  meantime,  I  care  naught  about  ye,  Eobert 
Moore  :  ye  are  nothing  akin  to  me  or  mine,  and  whether  ye 
lose  or  find  a  fortune  it  mak's  no  difference  to  me.  Go 
home,  now  :  it  has  stricken  ten.  Miss  IJortense  will  be 
wondering  where  ye  are.' 


CHAPTER  X 

OLD   MAIDS 

TIME  wore  on,  and  spring  matured.  The  surface  of  England 
began  to  look  pleasant :  her  fields  grew  green,  her  hills 
fresh,  her  gardens  blooming ;  but  at  heart  she  was  no 
better  :  still  her  poor  were  wretched,  still  their  employers 
were  harassed  :  commerce,  in  sonic  of  its  branches,  seemed 
threatened  with  paralysis,  for  the  war  continued ;  England's 
blood  was  shed  and  her  wealth  lavished  :  all,  it  seemed,  to 
attain  most  inadequate  ends.  Some  tidings  there  were 
indeed  occasionally  of  successes  in  the  Peninsula,  but  these 
came  in  slowly  ;  long  intervals  occurred  between,  in  which 
no  note  was  heard  but  the  insolent  self-felicitations  of 
Bonaparte  on  his  continued  triumphs.  Those  who  suffered 
from  the  results  of  the  war  felt  this  tedious,  and — as  they 
thought — hopeless,  struggle  against  what  their  fears  or  their 
interests  taught  them  to  regard  as  an  invincible  power,  most 
insufferable  :  they  demanded  peace  on  any  terms  :  men  like 
Yorke  and  Moore — and  there  were  thousands  whom  the  war 
placed  where  it  placed  them,  shuddering  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy — insisted  on  peace  with  the  energy  of  despera- 
tion. 

They  held  meetings  ;  they  made  speeches  ;  they  got  up 
petitions  to  extort  this  boon  :  on  what  terms  it  was  made 
they  cared  not. 

All  men,  taken  singly,  are  more  or  less  selfish  ;  and 
taken  in  bodies  they  are  intensely  so.  The  British  merchant 
is  no  exception  to  this  rule :  the  mercantile  classes  illustrate 


172  SHIBLEY 

it  strikingly.  These  classes  certainly  think  too  exclusively 
of  making  money :  they  are  too  oblivious  of  every  national 
consideration  but  that  of  extending  England's  (i.e.  their 
own)  commerce.  Chivalrous  feeling,  disinterestedness,  pride 
in  honour,  is  too  dead  in  their  hearts.  A  land  ruled  by 
them  alone  would  too  often  make  ignominious  submission — 
not  at  all  from  the  motives  Christ  teaches,  but  rather  from 
those  Mammon  instils.  During  the  late  war,  the  tradesmen 
of  England  would  have  endured  buffets  from  the  French  on 
the  right  cheek  and  on  the  left  ;  their  cloak  they  would 
have  given  to  Napoleon,  and  then  have  politely  offered  him 
their  coat  also,  nor  would  they  have  withheld  their  waist- 
coat if  urged  :  they  would  have  prayed  permission  only  tp 
retain  their  one  other  garment,  for  the  sake  of  the  purse  in 
its  pocket.  Not  one  spark  of  spirit,  not  one  symptom  of 
resistance  would  they  have  shown  till  the  hand  of  the 
Corsican  bandit  had  grasped  that  beloved  purse ;  then, 
perhaps,  transfigured  at  once  into  British  bull-dogs,  they 
would  have  sprung  at  the  robber's  throat,  and  there  they 
would  have  fastened,  and  there  hung — inveterate,  insatiable, 
till  the  treasure  had  been  restored.  Tradesmen,  when  they 
speak  against  war,  always  profess  to  hate  it  because  it  is  a 
bloody  and  barbarous  proceeding  :  you  would  think,  to  hear 
them  talk,  that  they  are  peculiarly  civilised —especially 
gentle  and  kindly  of  disposition  to  their  fellow-men.  This 
is  not  the  case.  Many  of  them  are  extremely  narrow  and 
cold-hearted,  have  no  good  feeling  for  any  class  but  their 
own,  are  distant — even  hostile  to  all  others ;  call  them 
useless  ;  seem  to  question  their  right  to  exist ;  seem  to 
grudge  them  the  very  air  they  breathe,  and  to  think  the 
cii'cumstance  of  their  eating,  drinking,  and  living  in  decent 
houses  quite  unjustifiable.  They  do  not  know  what  others 
do  in  the  way  of  helping,  pleasing,  or  teaching  their  race ; 
they  will  not  trouble  themselves  to  inquire  ;  whoever  is  not 
in  trade,  is  accused  of  eating  the  bread  of  idleness,  of  passing 
a  useless  existence.  Long  may  it  be  ere  England  really 
becomes  a  nation  of  shopkeepers  ! 


OLD  MAIDS  173 

We  have  already  said  that  Moore  was  no  self-sacrificing 
patriot,  and  we  have  also  explained  what  circumstances 
rendered  him  specially  prone  to  confine  his  attention  and 
efforts  to  the  furtherance  of  his  individual  interest ;  accord- 
ingly, when  he  felt  himself  urged  a  second  time  to  the  brink 
of  ruin,  none  struggled  harder  than  he  against  the  influences 
which  would  have  thrust  him  over.  What  he  could  do 
towards  stirring  agitation  in  the  north  against  the  war,  he 
did,  and  he  instigated  others  whose  money  and  connections 
gave  them  more  power  than  he  possessed.  Sometimes,  by 
flashes,  he  felt  there  was  little  reason  in  the  demands  his 
party  made  on  Government :  when  he  heard  of  all  Europe 
threatened  by  Bonaparte,  and  of  all  Europe  arming  to  resist 
him ;  when  he  saw  Eussia  menaced,  and  beheld  Russia 
rising,  incensed  and  stern,  to  defend  her  frozen  soil,  her 
wild  provinces  of  serfs,  her  dark  native  despotism,  from  the 
tread,  the  yoke,  the  tyranny  of  a  foreign  victor,  he  knew  that 
England,  a  free  realm,  could  not  then  depute  her  sons  to 
make  concessions  and  propose  terms  to  the  unjust,  grasping 
French  leader.  When  news  came  from  time  to  time  of  the 
movements  of  that  MAN  then  representing  England  in  the 
Peninsula  ;  of  his  advance  from  success  to  success — that 
advance  so  deliberate  but  so  unswerving,  so  circumspect  but 
so  certain,  so  '  unhasting '  but  so  '  unresting ; '  when  he 
read  Lord  Wellington's  own  despatches  in  the  columns  of 
the  newspapers,  documents  written  by  Modesty  to  the 
dictation  of  Truth — Moore  confessed  at  heart  that  a  power 
was  with  the  troops  of  Britain,  of  that  vigilant,  enduring, 
genuine,  unostentatious  sort,  which  must  win  victory  to  the 
side  it  led,  in  the  end.  In  the  end !  but  that  end,  he 
thought,  was  yet  far  off;  and  meantime  he,  Moore,  as  an 
individual,  would  be  crushed,  his  hopes  ground  to  dust :  it 
was  himself  he  had  to  care  for,  his  hopes  he  had  to  pursue, 
and  he  would  fulfil  his  destiny. 

He  fulfilled  it  so  vigorously,  that  ere  long  he  came  to  a 
decisive  rupture  with  his  old  Tory  friend  the  Rector.  They 
quarrelled  at  a  public  meeting,  and  afterwards  exchanged 


174  SHIKLEY 

some  pungent  letters  in  the  newspapers.  Mr.  Helstone 
denounced  Moore  as  a  Jacobin,  ceased  to  see  him,  would 
not  even  speak  to  him  when  they  met :  he  intimated  also  to 
his  niece,  very  distinctly,  that  her  communications  with 
Hollow's  cottage  must  for  the  present  cease  :  she  must  give 
up  taking  French  lessons.  The  language,  he  observed,  was 
a  bad  and  frivolous  one  at  the  best,  and  most  of  the  works  it 
boasted  were  bad  and  frivolous,  highly  injurious  in  their 
tendency  to  weak  female  minds.  He  wondered  (he  remarked 
parenthetically)  what  noodle  first  made  it  the  fashion  to 
teach  women  French :  nothing  was  more  improper  for 
them  ;  it  was  like  feeding  a  rickety  child  on  chalk  and 
water-gruel ;  Caroline  must  give  it  up,  and  give  up  her 
cousins  too  :  they  were  dangerous  people. 

Mr.  Helstone  quite  expected  opposition  to  this  order  : 
he  expected  tears.  Seldom  did  he  trouble  himself  about 
Caroline's  movements,  but  a  vague  idea  possessed  him  that 
she  was  fond  of  going  to  Hollow's  cottage :  also  he 
suspected  that  she  liked  Kobert  Moore's  occasional  presence 
at  the  Eectory.  The  Cossack  had  perceived  that  whereas 
if  Malone  stepped  in  of  an  evening  to  make  himself  sociable 
and  charming,  by  pinching  the  ears  of  an  aged  black  cat, 
which  usually  shared  with  Miss  Helstone's  feet  the  ac- 
commodation of  her  foot-stool,  or  by  borrowing  a  fowling- 
piece,  and  banging  away  at  a  tool-shed  door  in  the  garden 
while  enough  of  daylight  remained  to  show  that  conspicuous 
mark — keeping  the  passage  and  sitting-room  doors  mean- 
time uncomfortably  open,  for  the  convenience  of  running  in 
and  out  to  announce  his  failures  and  successes  with  noisy 
brusquerie — he  had  observed  that  under  such  entertaining 
circumstances,  Caroline  had  a  trick  of  disappearing,  tripping 
noiselessly  up-stairs,  and  remaining  invisible  till  called 
down  to  supper.  On  the  other  hand,  when  Kobert  Moore 
was  the  guest,  though  he  elicited  no  vivacities  from  the  cat, 
did  nothing  to  it,  indeed,  beyond  occasionally  coaxing  it 
from  the  stool  to  his  knee,  and  there  letting  it  purr,  climb  to 
his  shoulder  and  rub  its  head  against  his  cheek  ;  though  there 


OLD  MAIDS  175 

was  no  ear-splitting  cracking  off  of  firearms,  no  diffusion  of 
sulphurous  gunpowder  perfume,  no  noise,  no  boasting,  during 
his  stay,  still  Caroline  sat  in  the  room,  and  seemed  to  find 
wondrous  content  in  the  stitching  of  Jew-basket  pin- 
cushions, and  the  knitting  of  Missionary-basket  socks. 

She  was  very  quiet,  and  Robert  paid  her  little  attention, 
scarcely  ever  addressing  his  discourse  to  her;  but  Mr. 
Helstone,  not  being  one  of  those  elderly  gentlemen  who  are 
easily  blinded ;  on  the  contrary,  finding  himself  on  all  occa- 
sions extremely  wide-awake,  had  watched  them  when  they 
bade  each  other  good-night :  he  had  just  seen  their  eyes 
meet  once— only  once.  Some  natures  would  have  taken 
pleasure  in  the  glance  then  surprised,  because  there  was  no 
harm  and  some  delight  in  it.  It  was  by  no  means  a  glance 
of  mutual  intelligence,  for  mutual  love-secrets  existed  not 
between  them  :  there  was  nothing  then  of  craft  and  conceal- 
ment to  offend ;  only  Mr.  Moore's  eyes,  looking  into 
Caroline's,  felt  they  were  clear  and  gentle,  and  Caroline's 
eyes  encountering  Mr.  Moore's  confessed  they  were  manly 
and  searching  :  each  acknowledged  the  charm  in  his  or  her 
own  way.  Moore  smiled  slightly,  and  Caroline  coloured  as 
slightly.  Mr.  Helstone  could,  on  the  spot,  have  rated  them 
both  :  they  annoyed  him  :  why  ?  impossible  to  say.  If  you 
had  asked  him  what  Moore  merited  at  that  moment,  he 
would  have  said  '  a  horsewhip ;  '  if  you  had  inquired  into 
Caroline's  deserts,  he  would  have  adjudged  her  a  box  on  the 
ear ;  if  you  had  further  demanded  the  reason  of  such 
chastisements,  he  would  have  stormed  against  flirtation  and 
love-making,  and  vowed  he  would  have  no  such  folly  going 
on  under  his  roof. 

These  private  considerations,  combined  with  political 
reasons,  fixed  his  resolution  of  separating  the  cousins.  lie 
announced  his  will  to  Caroline  one  evening,  as  she  was 
sitting  at  work  near  the  drawing-room  window  :  her  face 
was  turned  towards  him,  and  the  light  fell  full  upon  it.  It 
had  struck  him  a  few  minutes  before  that  she  was  looking 
paler  and  quieter  than  she  used  to  look ;  it  had  not  escaped 


176  SHIRLEY 

him  either  that  Robert  Moore's  name  had  never,  for  some 
three  weeks  past,  dropped  from  her  lips ;  nor  during  the 
same  space  of  time  had  that  personage  made  his  appearance 
at  the  Eectory.  Some  suspicion  of  clandestine  meetings 
haunted  his  mind;  having  but  an  indifferent  opinion  of 
women,  he  always  suspected  them :  he  thought  they 
needed  constant  watching.  It  was  in  a  tone  dryly  significant 
he  desired  her  to  cease  her  daily  visits  to  the  Hollow ;  he 
expected  a  start,  a  look  of  deprecation  :  the  start  he  saw,  but 
it  was  a  very  slight  one ;  no  look  whatever  was  directed  to 
him. 

'  Do  you  hear  me  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Yes,  uncle.' 

1  Of  course,  you  mean  to  attend  to  what  I  say!: 

'  Yes,  certainly.' 

'  And  there  must  be  no  letter-scribbling  to  your  cousin 
Hortense  :  no  intercourse  whatever.  I  do  not  approve  of 
the  principles  of  the  family ;  they  are  Jacobinical.' 

1  Very  well,'  said  Caroline  quietly.  She  acquiesced  then  : 
there  was  no  vexed  flushing  of  the  face,  no  gathering  tears  : 
the  shadowy  thoughtfulness  which  had  covered  her  features 
ere  Mr.  Helstone  spoke  remained  undisturbed  :  she  was 
obedient. 

Yes,  perfectly ;  because  the  mandate  coincided  with  her 
own  previous  judgment ;  because  it  was  now  become  pain 
to  her  to  go  to  Hollow's  cottage  ;  nothing  met  her  there  but 
disappointment  :  hope  and  love  had  quitted  that  little  tene- 
ment, for  Robert  seemed  to  have  deserted  its  precincts. 
Whenever  she  asked  after  him — which  she  very  seldom  did, 
since  the  mere  utterance  of  his  name  made  her  face  grow 
hot — the  answer  was,  he  was  from  home,  or  he  was  quite 
taken  up  with  business :  Hortense  feared  he  was  killing 
himself  by  application  :  be  scarcely  ever  took  a  meal  in  the 
house  ;  he  lived  in  the  counting-house. 

At  church  only  Caroline  had  the  chance  of  seeing  him, 
and  there  she  rarely  looked  at  him  :  it  was  both  too  much 
pain  and  too  much  pleasure  to  look:  it  excited  too  much 


OLD  MAIDS  177 

emotion  ;  and  that  it  was  all  wasted  emotion,  she  had  learned 
well  to  comprehend. 

Once,  on  a  dark,  wet  Sunday,  when  there  were  few  people 
at  church,  and  when  especially  certain  ladies  were  absent, 
of  whose  observant  faculties  and  tomahawk  tongues  Caroline 
stood  in  awe,  she  had  allowed  her  eye  to  seek  Eobert's  pew, 
and  to  rest  a  while  on  its  occupant.  He  was  there  alone  : 
Hortense  had  been  kept  at  home  by  prudent  considerations 
relative  to  the  rain  and  a  new  spring  '  chapeau.'  During 
the  sermon,  he  sat  with  folded  arms  and  eyes  cast  down, 
looking  very  sad  and  abstracted.  When  depressed,  the  very 
hue  of  his  face  seemed  more  dusk  than  when  he  smiled,  and 
to-day  cheek  and  forehead  wore  their  most  tintless  and  sober 
olive.  By  instinct  Caroline  knew,  as  she  examined  that 
clouded  countenance,  that  his  thoughts  were  running  in  no 
familiar  or  kindly  channel ;  that  they  were  far  away,  not 
merely  from  her,  but  from  all  which  she  could  comprehend, 
or  in  which  she  could  sympathise.  Nothing  that  they  had 
ever  talked  of  together  was  now  in  his  mind  :  he  was  rapt 
from  her  by  interests  and  responsibilities  in  which  it  was 
deemed  such  as  she  could  have  no  part. 

Caroline  meditated  in  her  own  way  on  the  subject ; 
speculated  on  his  feelings,  on  his  life,  on  his  fears,  on  his 
fate  ;  mused  over  the  mystery  of  '  business,'  tried  to  com- 
prehend more  about  it  than  had  ever  been  told  her — to 
understand  its  perplexities,  liabilities,  duties,  exactions ; 
endeavoured  to  realise  the  state  of  mind  of  a '  man  of  business,' 
to  enter  into  it,  feel  what  he  would  feel,  aspire  to  what  he 
would  aspire  to.  Her  earnest  wish  was  to  see  things  as 
they  were,  and  not  to  be  romantic.  By  dint  of  effort  she 
contrived  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  light  of  truth  here  and 
there,  and  hoped  that  scant  ray  might  suffice  to  guide  her. 

'  Different,  indeed,'  she  concluded,  '  is  Robert's  mental 
condition  to  mine  :  I  think  only  of  him  ;  he  has  no  room,  no 
leisure  to  think  of  me.  The  feeling  called  love  is  and  lias 
been  for  two  years  the  predominant  emotion  of  my  heart ; 
always  there,  always  awalce,  always  astir  :  quite  other  feul- 


178  SHIELEY 

ings  absorb  his  reflections,  and  govern  his  faculties.  He  is 
rising  now,  going  to  leave  the  church,  for  service  is  over. 
Will  he  turn  his  head  towards  this  pew  ? — no — not  once — 
he  has  not  one  look  for  me  :  that  is  hard  :  a  kind  glance 
would  have  made  me  happy  till  to-morrow ;  I  have  not  got 
it ;  he  would  not  give  it ;  he  is  gone.  Strange  that  grief 
should  now  almost  choke  me,  because  another  human  being's 
eye  has  failed  to  greet  mine.' 

That  Sunday  evening,  Mr.  Malone  coming,  as  usual,  to 
pass  it  with  his  Eector,  Caroline  withdrew  after  tea  to  her 
chamber.  Fanny,  knowing  her  habits,  had  lit  her  a  cheerful 
little  fire,  as  the  weather  was  so  gusty  and  chill.  Closeted 
there,  silent  and  solitary,  what  could  she  do  but  think  ?  She 
noiselessly  paced  to  and  fro  the  carpeted  floor ;  her  head 
drooped,  her  hands  folded  :  it  was  irksome  to  sit :  the  current 
of  reflection  ran  rapidly  through  her  mind  :  to-night  she 
was  mutely  excited. 

Mute  was  the  room, — mute  the  house.  The  double-door 
of  the  study  muffled  the  voices  of  the  gentlemen :  the 
servants  were  quiet  in  the  kitchen,  engaged  with  books  their 
young  mistress  had  lent  them  ;  books  which  she  had  told  them 
were  '  fit  for  Sunday  reading.'  And  she  herself  had  another 
of  the  same  sort  open  on  the  table,  but  she  could  not  read  it : 
its  theology  was  incomprehensible  to  her,  and  her  own  mind 
was  too  busy,  teeming,  wandering,  to  listen  to  the  language 
of  another  mind. 

Then,  too,  her  imagination  was  full  of  pictures  :  images 
of  Moore  ;  scenes  where  he  and  she  had  been  together ; 
winter  fireside  sketches,  a  glowing  landscape  of  a  hot 
summer  afternoon  passed  with  him  in  the  bosom  of  Nunnely 
wood  :  divine  vignettes  of  mild  spring  or  mellow  autumn 
moments,  when  she  had  sat  at  his  side  in  Hollow's  copse, 
listening  to  the  call  of  the  May  cuckoo,  or  sharing  the 
September  treasure  of  nuts  and  ripe  blackberries — a  wild 
dessert  which  it  was  her  morning's  pleasure  to  collect  in 
a  little  basket,  and  cover  \vith  green  leaves  and  fresh  blos- 
soms, and  her  afternoon's  delight  to  administer  to  Moore, 


OLD  MAIDS  179 

berry  by  berry,  and  nut  by  nut,  like  a  bird  feeding  its 
fledgling. 

Robert's  features  and  form  were  with  her ;  the  sound  of 
his  voice  was  quite  distinct  in  her  ear ;  his  few  caresses 
seemed  renewed.  But  th3se  joys  being  hollow,  were, 
erelong,  crushed  in  :  the  pictures  faded,  the  voice  failed,  the 
visionary  clasp  melted  chill  from  her  hand,  and  where  the 
warm  seal  of  lips  had  made  impress  on  her  forehead,  it  felt 
now  as  if  a  sleety  i'ain-drop  had  fallen.  She  returned  from 
an  enchanted  region  to  the  real  world  :  for  Nunnely  wood 
in  June,  she  saw  her  narrow  chamber;  for  the  songs  of 
bhxls  in  alleys,  she  heard  the  rain  on  her  casement ;  for  the 
sigh  of  the  south  wind,  came  the  sob  of  the  mournful  east ; 
and  for  Moore's  manly  companionship,  she  had  the  thin 
illusion  of  her  own  dim  shadow  on  the  wall.  Turning  from 
the  pale  phantom  which  reflected  herself  in  its  outline,  and 
her  reverie  in  the  drooped  attitude  of  its  dim  head  and 
colourless  tresses,  she  sat  down — inaction  would  suit  the 
frame  of  mind  into  which  she  was  now  declining  — she  said 
to  herself : — '  I  have  to  live,  perhaps,  till  seventy  years.  As 
far  as  I  know,  I  have  good  health  :  half  a  century  of 
existence  may  lie  before  me.  How  am  I  to  occupy  it? 
What  am  I  to  do  to  fill  the  interval  of  time  which  spreads 
between  me  and  the  grave  ? ' 

She  reflected. 

'  I  shall  not  be  married,  it  appears,'  she  continued.  '  I 
suppose,  as  Robert  does  not  care  for  me,  I  shall  never  have 
a  husband  to  love,  nor  little  children  to  take  care  of.  Till 
lately  I  had  reckoned  securely  on  the  duties  and  affections 
of  wife  and  mother  to  occupy  my  existence.  I  considered, 
somehow,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  I  was  growing  up  to 
the  ordinary  destiny,  and  never  troubled  myself  to  seek  any 
other ;  but  now,  I  perceive  plainly,  I  may  have  been  mis- 
taken. Probably  I  shall  be  an  old  maid.  I  shall  live  to  see 
Robert  married  to  some  one  else,  some  rich  lady :  I  shall 
never  marry.  What  was  I  created  for,  I  wonder  ?  When; 
is  my  place  in  the  world  ? ' 


180  SHIRLEY 

She  mused  again. 

'  Ah  !  I  see,'  she  pursued  presently  ;  '  that  is  the  question 
which  most  old  maids  are  puzzled  to  solve :  other  people 
solve  it  for  them  by  saying,  '  Your  place  is  to  do  good  to 
others,  to  be  helpful  whenever  help  is  wanted.'  That  is  right 
in  some  measure,  and  a  very  convenient  doctrine  for  the 
people  who  hold  it ;  but  I  perceive  that  certain  sets  of 
human  beings  are  very  apt  to  maintain  that  other  sets 
should  give  up  their  lives  to  them  and  their  service,  and  then 
they  requite  them  by  praise  :  they  call  them  devoted  and 
virtuous.  Is  this  enough  ?  Is  it  to  live  ?  Is  there  not  a 
terrible  hollowness,  mockery,  want,  craving,  in  that  existence 
which  is  given  away  to  others,  for  want  of  something  of 
your  own  to  bestow  it  on  ?  I  suspect  there  is.  Does  virtue 
lie  in  abnegation  of  self?  I  do  not  believe  it.  Undue 
humility  makes  tyranny ;  weak  concession  creates  selfish- 
ness. The  Romish  religion  especially  teaches  renunciation 
of  self,  submission  to  others,  and  nowhere  are  found  so 
many  grasping  tyrants  as  in  the  ranks  of  the  Romish  priest- 
hood. Each  human  being  has  his  share  of  rights.  I  suspect 
it  would  conduce  to  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  all,  if  each 
knew  his  allotment,  and  held  to  it  as  tenaciously  as  the 
martyr  to  his  creed.  Queer  thoughts  these,  that  surge  in  my 
mind  :  are  they  right  thoughts  ?  I  am  not  certain. 

'  Well,  life  is  short  at  the  best :  seventy  years,  they  say, 
pass  like  a  vapour,  like  a  dream  wrhen  one  awaketh  ;  and 
every  path  trod  by  human  feet  terminates  in  one  bourne — 
the  grave  :  the  little  chink  in  the  surface  of  this  great  globe — 
the  furrow  where  the  mighty  husbandman  with  the  scythe 
deposits  the  seed  he  has  shaken  from  the  ripe  stem ;  and 
thei'e  it  falls,  decays,  and  thence  it  springs  again,  when  the 
world  has  rolled  round  a  few  times  more.  So  much  for  the 
body  ;  the  soul  meantime  wings  its  long  flight  upward,  folds 
its  wings  on  the  brink  of  the  sea  of  fire  and  glass,  and 
gazing  down  through  the  burning  clearness,  finds  there 
mirrored  the  vision  of  the  Christian's  triple  Godhead  :  the 
Sovereign  Father ;  the  Mediating  Ron  ;  the  Creator  Spirit. 


OLD  MAIDS  181 

Such  words,  at  least,  have  been  chosen  to  express  what  is 
inexpressible :  to  describe  what  baffles  description.  The 
soul's  real  hereafter,  who  shall  guess  ?  ' 

Her  fire  was  decayed  to  its  last  cinder;  Malone  had 
departed ;  and  now  the  study  bell  rang  for  prayers. 

The  next  day  Caroline  had  to  spend  altogether  alone,  her 
uncle  being  gone  to  dine  with  his  friend  Dr.  Boultby,  vicar 
of  Whinbury.  The  whole  time  she  was  talking  inwardly  in 
the  same  strain  :  looking  forwards,  asking  what  she  was  to 
do  with  life.  Fanny,  as  she  passed  in  and  out  of  the  room 
occasionally,  intent  on  housemaid  errands,  perceived  that 
her  young  mistress  sat  very  still.  She  was  always  in  the 
same  place,  always  bent  industriously  over  a  piece  of  work  : 
she  did  not  lift  her  head  to  speak  to  Fanny,  as  her  custom 
was ;  and  when  the  latter  remarked  that  the  day  was 
fine,  and  she  ought  to  take  a  walk,  she  only  said — '  It  is 
cold.' 

'  You  are  very  diligent  at  that  sewing,  Miss  Caroline,' 
continued  the  girl,  approaching  her  little  table. 

'  I  am  tired  of  it,  Fanny.' 

'  Then  why  do  you  go  on  with  it  ?  Put  it  down  :  read,  or 
do  something  to  amuse  you.' 

'  It  is  solitary  in  this  house,  Fanny  :  don't  you  think  so  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  find  it  so,  miss.  Me  and  Eliza  are  company  for 
one  another  ;  but  you  are  quite  too  still — you  should  visit 
more.  Now,  be  persuaded  ;  go  up- stairs  and  dress  yourself 
smart,  and  go  and  take  tea,  in  a  friendly  way,  with  Miss 
Mann  or  Miss  Ainley ;  I  am  certain  either  of  those  ladies 
would  be  delighted  to  see  you.' 

'  But  their  houses  are  dismal :  they  are  both  old  maids. 
I  am  certain  old  maids  are  a  very  unhappy  race.' 

'  Not  they,  miss  :  they  can't  be  unhappy ;  they  take  such 
care  of  themselves.  They  are  all  selfish.' 

'  Miss  Ainley  is  not  selfish,  Fanny  :  she  is  always  doing 
good.  How  devotedly  kind  she  was  to  her  stepmother,  as 
long  as  the  old  lady  lived ;  and  now  when  she  is  quite  alone 
in  the  world,  without  brother  or  sister,  or  any  one  to  care 


182  SHI&LEY 

for  her,  how  charitable  she  is  to  the  poor,  as  far  as  her  means 
permit !  Still,  nobody  thinks  much  of  her,  or  has  pleasure 
in  going  to  see  her :  and  how  gentlemen  always  sneer  at 
her!' 

'  They  shouldn't,  miss  ;  I  believe  she  is  a  good  woman  : 
but  gentlemen  think  only  of  ladies'  looks.' 

'  I'll  go  and  see  her,'  exclaimed  Caroline,  starting  up : 
'  and  if  she  asks  me  to  stay  to  tea,  I'll  stay.  How  wrong  it 
is  to  neglect  people  because  they  are  not  pretty,  and  young, 
and  merry !  And  I  will  certainly  call  to  see  Miss  Mann, 
too :  she  may  not  be  amiable ;  but  what  has  made  her 
unamiable  ?  What  has  life  been  to  her  ? ' 

Fanny  helped  Miss  Helstone  to  put  away  her  work,  and 
afterwards  assisted  her  to  dress. 

'  You'll  not  be  an  old  maid,  Miss  Caroline,'  she  said,  as  she 
tied  the  sash  of  her  brown-silk  frock,  having  previously 
smoothed  her  soft,  full,  and  shining  curls  ;  '  there  are  no 
signs  of  an  old  maid  about  you.' 

Caroline  looked  at  the  little  mirror  before  her,  and  she 
thought  there  were  some  signs.  She  could  see  that  she  was 
altered  within  the  last  month  ;  that  the  hues  of  her  com- 
plexion were  paler,  her  eyes  changed — a  wan  shade  seemed 
to  circle  them,  her  countenance  was  dejected  :  she  was  not, 
in  short,  so  pretty  or  so  fresh  as  she  used  to  be.  She  dis- 
tantly hinted  this  to  Fanny,  from  whom  she  got  no  direct 
answer,  only  a  remark  that  people  did  vary  in  their  looks ; 
but  that  at  her  age  a  little  falling  away  signified  nothing, — 
she  would  soon  come  round  again,  and  be  plumper  and  rosier 
than  ever.  Having  given  this  assurance,  Fanny  showed 
singular  zeal  in  wrapping  her  up  in  warm  shawls  and  hand- 
kerchiefs, till  Caroline,  nearly  smothered  with  the  weight, 
was  fain  to  i-csist  further  additions. 

She  paid  her  visits  :  first  to  Miss  Mann,  for  this  was  the 
mo;t  difficult  point  :  Miss  Mann  was  certainly  not  quite  a 
lovable  person.  Till  now,  Caroline  had  always  unhesilat- 
ingly  declared  she  disliked  her,  and  more  than  once  she  had 
joined  her  cousin  Robert  in  laughing  at  some  of  her  pecu- 


OLD  MAIDS  183 

liarities.  Moore  was  not  habitually  given  to  sarcasm, 
especially  on  anything  humbler  or  weaker  than  himself;  but 
he  had  once  or  twice  happened  to  be  in  the  room  when  Miss 
Mann  had  made  a  call  on  his  sister,  and  after  listening  to 
her  conversation  and  viewing  her  features  for  a  time,  he  had 
gone  out  into  the  garden  where  his  little  cousin  was  tending 
some  of  his  favourite  flowers,  and  while  standing  near  and 
watching  her,  he  had  amused  himself  with  comparing  fair 
youth — delicate  and  attractive — with  shrivelled  eld,  livid  and 
loveless,  and  in  jestingly  repeating  to  a  smiling  girl  the 
vinegar  discourse  of  a  cankered  old  maid.  Once  on  such 
an  occasion,  Caroline  had  said  to  him,  looking  up  from  the 
luxuriant  creeper  she  was  binding  to  its  frame, — '  Ah  1 
Eobert,  you  do  not  like  old  maids.  I,  too,  should  come 
under  the  lash  of  your  sarcasm,  if  I  were  an  old  maid.' 

'  You  an  old  maid !  '  he  had  replied.  '  A  piquant  notion 
suggested  by  lips  of  that  tint  and  form.  I  can  fancy  you, 
though,  at  forty,  quietly  dressed,  pale  and  sunk,  but  still  with 
that  straight  nose,  white  forehead,  and  those  soft  eyes.  I 
suppose,  too,  you  will  keep  your  voice,  which  has  another 
"  timbre "  than  that  hard,  deep  organ  of  Miss  Mann's. 
Courage,  Gary !  —  even  at  fifty  you  will  not  be  repulsive.' 

'  Miss  Mann  did  not  make  herself,  or  tune  her  voice, 
Eobert.' 

'  Nature  made  her  in  the  mood  in  which  she  makes  her 
briars  and  thorns  :  whereas  for  the  creation  of  some  women, 
she  reserves  the  May  morning  hours,  when  with  light  and 
dew  she  wooes  the  primrose  from  the  turf,  and  the  lily  from 
the  wood-moss.' 

Ushered  into  Miss  Mann's  little  parlour,  Caroline  found 
her,  as  she  always  found  her,  surrounded  by  perfect  neat- 
ness, cleanliness,  and  comfort  (after  all,  is  it  not  a  virtue 
in  old  maids  that  solitude  rarely  makes  them  negligent  or 
disorderly?) ;  no  dust  on  her  polished  furniture,  none  on  her 
carpet,  fresh  flowers  in  the  vase  on  her  table,  a  bright  fire 
in  the  grate.  She  herself  sat  primly  and  somewhat  grimly- 


184  SHIELEY 

tidy  in  a  cushioned  rocking-chair,  her  hands  busied  with 
some  knitting :  this  was  her  favourite  work,  as  it  required 
the  least  exertion.  She  scarcely  rose  as  Caroline  entered ; 
to  avoid  excitement  was  one  of  Miss  Mann's  aims  in  life : 
she  had  been  composing  herself  ever  since  she  came  down 
in  the  morning,  and  had  just  attained  a  certain  lethargic 
state  of  tranquillity  when  the  visitor's  knock  at  the  door 
startled  her,  and  undid  her  day's  work.  She  was  scarcely 
pleased,  therefore,  to  see  Miss  Helstone :  she  received  her 
with  reserve,  bade  her  be  seated  with  austerity,  and  when 
she  got  her  placed  opposite,  she  fixed  her  with  her  eye. 

This  was  no  ordinary  doom — to  be  fixed  with  Miss 
Mann's  eye.  Robert  Moore  had  undergone  it  once,  and  had 
never  forgotten  the  circumstance. 

He  considered  it  quite  equal  to  anything  Medusa  could 
do  ;  he  professed  to  doubt  whether,  since  that  infliction,  his 
flesh  had  been  quite  what  it  was  before — whether  there  was 
not  something  stony  in  its  texture.  The  gaze  had  had 
such  an  effect  on  him  as  to  drive  him  promptly  from  the 
apartment  and  house ;  it  had  even  sent  him  straightway  up 
to  the  Eectory,  where  he  had  appeared  in  Caroline's 
presence  with  a  very  queer  face,  and  amazed  her  by 
demanding  a  cousinly  salute  on  the  spot,  to  rectify  a  damage 
that  had  been  done  him. 

Certainly  Miss  Mann  had  a  formidable  eye  for  one  of  the 
softer  sex  :  it  was  prominent,  and  showed  a  great  deal  of 
the  white,  and  looked  as  steadily,  as  unwinkingly,  at  you  as 
if  it  were  a  steel  ball  soldered  in  her  head ;  and  when,  while 
looking,  she  began  to  talk  in  an  indescribably  dry  monotonous 
tone — a  tone  without  vibration  or  inflection — you  felt  as  if  a 
graven  image  of  some  bad  spirit  were  addressing  you.  Bu'u 
it  was  all  a  figment  of  fancy,  a  matter  of  surface.  Miss 
Mann's  goblin-grimness  scarcely  went  deeper  than  the 
angel-sweetness  of  hundreds  of  beauties.  She  was  a 
perfectly  honest,  conscientious  woman,  who  had  performed 
duties  in  her  day* from  whose  severe  anguish  many  a  human 
Peri,  gazelle -eyed,  silken-tressed,  and  silver-tongued,  would 


OLD  MAIDS  185 

have  shrunk  appalled :  she  had  passed  alone  through 
protracted  scenes  of  suffering,  exercised  rigid  self-denial, 
made  large  sacrifices  of  time,  money,  health,  for  those  who 
had  repaid  her  only  by  ingratitude,  and  now  her  main— 
almost  her  sole — fault  was,  that  she  was  censorious. 

Censorious  she  certainly  was.  Caroline  had  not  sat  five 
minutes  ere  her  hostess,  still  keeping  her  under  the  spell  of 
that  dread  and  Gorgon  gaze,  began  flaying  alive  certain  of 
the  families  in  the  neighbourhood.  She  went  to  work  at 
this  business  in  a  singularly  cool,  deliberate  manner,  like 
some  surgeon  practising  with  his  scalpel  on  a  lifeless  subject : 
she  made  few  distinctions ;  she  allowed  scarcely  any  one 
to  be  good;  she  dissected  impartially  almost  all  her 
acquaintance.  If  her  auditress  ventured  now  and  then  to 
put  in  a  palliative  word,  she  set  it  aside  with  a  certain 
disdain.  Still,  though  thus  pitiless  in  moral  anatomy,  she 
was  no  scandal-monger :  she  never  disseminated  really 
malignant  or  dangerous  reports  :  it  was  not  her  heart  so 
much  as  her  temper  that  was  wrong. 

Caroline  made  this  discovery  for  the  first  time  to-day ; 
and,  moved  thereby  to  regret  divers  unjust  judgments  she 
had  more  than  once  passed  on  the  crabbed  old  maid,  she 
began  to  talk  to  her  softly,  not  in  sympathizing  woi'ds,  but 
with  a  sympathizing  voice.  The  loneliness  of  her  condition 
struck  her  visitor  in  a  new  light ;  as  did  also  the  character 
of  her  ugliness — a  bloodless  pallor  of  complexion,  and 
deeply  worn  lines  of  feature.  The  girl  pitied  the  solitary 
and  afflicted  woman  ;  her  looks  told  what  she  felt :  a  sweet 
countenance  is  never  so  sweet  as  when  the  moved  heart 
animates  it  with  compassionate  tenderness.  Miss  Mann, 
seeing  such  a  countenance  raised  to  her,  was  touched  in  her 
turn :  she  acknowledged  her  sense  of  the  interest  thus 
unexpectedly  shown  in  her,  who  usually  met  with  only 
coldness  and  ridicule,  by  repl;  ing  to  her  candidly.  Com- 
municative on  her  own  affairs  she  usually  was  not,  because 
no  one  cared  to  listen  to  her ;  but  to-day  she  became  so, 
and  her  confidant  shed  tears  as  she  heard  her  speak  :  for 


186  SHIELEY 

she  told  of  cruel,  slow-wasting,  obstinate  sufferings.  Well 
might  she  be  corpse-like  :  well  might  she  look  grim,  and 
never  smile ;  well  might  she  wish  to  avoid  excitement,  to 
gain  and  retain  composure !  Caroline,  when  she  knew  all, 
acknowledged  that  Miss  Mann  was  rather  to  be  admired  for 
fortitude  than  blamed  for  moroseness.  Eeader !  when  you 
behold  an  aspect  for  whose  constant  gloom  and  frown  you 
cannot  account,  whose  unvarying  cloud  exasperates  you  by 
its  apparent  causelessness,  be  sure  that  there  is  a  canker 
somewhere,  and  a  canker  not  the  less  deeply  corroding 
because  concealed. 

Miss  Mann  felt  that  she  was  understood  partly,  and 
wished  to  be  understood  further ;  for,  however  old,  plain, 
humble,  desolate,  afflicted  we  may  be,  so  long  as  our  hearts 
preserve  the  feeblest  spark  of  life,  they  preserve  also,  shiver- 
ing near  that  pale  ember,  a  starved,  ghostly  longing  for 
appreciation  and  affection.  To  this  extenuated  spectre, 
perhaps,  a  crumb  is  not  thrown  once  a  year ;  but  when 
ahungered  and  athirst  to  famine — when  all  humanity  has 
forgotten  the  dying  tenant  of  a  decaying  house — Divine 
Mercy  remembers  the  mourner,  and  a  shower  of  manna 
falls  for  lips,- that  earthly  nutriment  is  to  pass  no  more. 
Biblical  promises,  heard  first  in  health,  but  then  unheeded, 
come  whispering  to  the  couch  of  sickness :  it  is  felt  that  a 
pitying  God  watches  what  all  mankind  have  forsaken ;  the 
tender  compassion  of  Jesus  is  recalled  and  relied  on  :  the 
faded  eye,  gazing  beyond  Time,  sees  a  Home,  a  Friend,  a 
Kefuge  in  Eternity. 

Miss  Mann,  drawn  on  by  the  still  attention  of  her 
listener,  proceeded  to  allude  to  circumstances  in  her  past 
life.  She  spoke  like  one  who  tells  the  truth— simply,  and 
with  a  certain  reserve ;  she  did  not  boast,  nor  did  she 
exaggerate.  Caroline  found  that  the  old  rnaid  had  been  a 
most  devoted  daughter  and  sister,  an  unwearied  watcher  by 
lingering  deathbeds ;  that  to  prolonged  and  unrelaxing 
attendance  on  the  sick,  the  malady  that  now  poisoned  her 
own  life  owed  its  origin ;  that  to  one  wretched  relative  she 


OLD   MAIDS  187 

had  been  a  support  and  succour  in  the  depths  of  self-earned 
degradation,  and  that  it  was  still  her  hand  which  kept  him 
from  utter  destitution,  Miss  Helstone  stayed  the  whole 
evening,  omitting  to  pay  her  other  intended  visit ;  and  when 
she  left  Miss  Mann,  it  was  with  the  determination  to  try  in 
future  to  excuse  her  faults,  never  again  to  make  light  of  her 
peculiarities  or  to  laugh  at  her  plainness ;  and,  above  all 
things,  not  to  neglect  her,  but  to  come  once  a  week,  and  to 
offer  her,  from  one  human  heart  at  least,  the  homage  of 
affection  and  respect :  she  felt  she  could  now  sincerely  give 
her  a  small  tribute  of  each  feeling. 

Caroline,  on  her  return,  told  Fanny  she  was  very  glad 
she  had  gone  out,  as  she  felt  much  better  for  the  visit.  The 
next  day  she  failed  not  to  seek  Miss  Ainley.  This  lady 
was  in  narrower  circumstances  than  Miss  Mann,  and  her 
dwelling  was  more  humble  :  it  was,  however,  if  possible,  yet 
more  exquisitely  clean  ;  though  the  decayed  gentlewoman 
could  not  afford  to  keep  a  servant,  but  waited  on  herself,  and 
had  only  the  occasional  assistance  of  a  little  girl  who  lived 
in  a  cottage  near. 

Not  only  was  Miss  Ainley  poorer,  but  she  was  even 
plainer  than  the  other  old  maid.  In  her  first  youth  she 
must  have  been  ugly ;  now,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  she  was  very 
ugly.  At  first  sight,  all  but  peculiarly  well-disciplined 
minds  were  apt  to  turn  from  her  with  annoyance  :  to 
conceive  against  her  a  prejudice,  simply  on  the  ground  of 
her  unattractive  look.  Then  she  was  prim  in  dress  and 
manner :  she  looked,  spoke,  and  moved  the  complete  old 
maid. 

Her  welcome  to  Caroline  was  formal,  even  in  its  kind- 
ness— for  it  was  kind ;  but  Miss  Helstone  excused  this. 
She  knew  something  of  the  benevolence  of  the  heart  which 
beat  under  that  starched  kerchief ;  all  the  neighbourhood — 
at  least  all  the  female  neighbourhood— knew  something  of 
it:  no  one  spoke  against  Miss  Ainley  except  lively  young 
gentlemen,  and  inconsiderate  old  ones,  who  declared  her 
hideous. 


188  SHIELEY 

Caroline  was  soon  at  home  in  that  tiny  parlour  ;  a  kiud 
hand  took  from  her  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  installed  her 
in  the  most  comfortable  seat  near  the  fire.  The  young  and 
the  antiquated  woman  were  presently  deep  in  kindly  con- 
versation, and  soon  Caroline  became  aware  of  the  power  a 
most  serene,  unselfish,  and  benignant  mind  could  exercise 
over  those  to  whom  it  was  developed.  She  talked  never  of 
herself — always  of  others.  Their  faults  she  passed  over ; 
her  theme  was  their  wants,  which  she  sought  to  supply  ; 
their  sufferings,  which  she  longed  to  alleviate.  She  was 
religious — a  professor  of  religion — what  some  would  call  a 
'  saint,'  and  she  referred  to  religion  often  in  sanctioned 
phrase — in  phrase  which  those  who  possess  a  perception 
of  the  ridiculous,  without  owning  the  power  of  exactly 
testing  and  truly  judging  character,  would  certainly  have 
esteemed  a  proper  subject  for  satire — a  matter  for  mimicry 
and  laughter.  They  would  have  been  hugely  mistaken  for 
their  pains.  Sincerity  is  never  ludicrous ;  it  is  always 
respectable.  Whether  truth — be  it  religious  or  moral  truth 
— speak  eloquently  and  in  well-chosen  language  or  not,  its 
voice  should  be  heard  with  reverence.  Let  those  who 
cannot  nicely,  and  with  certainty,  discern  the  difference 
between  the  tones  of  hypocrisy  and  those  of  sincerity,  never 
presume  to  laugh  at  all,  lest  they  should  have  the  miserable 
misfortune  to  laugh  in  the  wrong  place,  and  commit  impiety 
when  they  think  they  are  achieving  wit. 

Not  from  Miss  Ainley's  own  lips  did  Caroline  hear  of  her 
good  works  ;  but  she  knew  much  of  them  nevertheless ;  her 
beneficence  was  the  familiar  topic  of  the  poor  in  Briarfield. 
They  were  not  works  of  almsgiving :  the  old  maid  was  too 
poor  to  give  much,  though  she  straitened  herself  to  privation 
that  she  might  contribute  her  mite  when  needful :  they  were 
the  works  of  a  Sister  of  Charity,  far  more  difficult  to  perform 
than  those  of  a  Lady  Bountiful.  She  would  watch  by  any 
sick-bed  :  she  seemed  to  fear  no  disease  ;  she  would  nurse 
the  poorest  whom  none  else  would  nurse  :  she  was  serene, 
humble,  kind,  and  equable  through  everything. 


OLD  MAIDS  189 

For  this  goodness  she  got  but  little  reward  in  this  life. 
Many  of  the  poor  became  so  accustomed  to  her  services  that 
they  hardly  thanked  her  for  them  :  the  rich  heard  them 
mentioned  with  wonder,  but  were  silent,  from  a  sense  of 
shame  at  the  difference  between  her  sacrifices  and  their  own. 
Many  ladies,  however,  respected  her  deeply ;  they  could  not 
help  it ;  one  gentleman — one  only — gave  her  his  friendship 
and  perfect  confidence :  this  was  Mr.  Hall,  the  vicar  of 
Nunnely.  He  said,  and  said  truly,  that  her  life  came  nearer 
the  life  of  Christ,  than  that  of  any  other  human  being  he  had 
ever  met  with.  You  must  not  think,  reader,  that  in  sketching 
Miss  Ainley's  character,  I  depict  a  figment  of  imagination — 
no — we  seek  the  originals  of  such  portraits  in  real  life  only. 

Miss  Helstone  studied  well  the  mind  and  heart  now 
revealed  to  her.  She  found  no  high  intellect  to  admire  :  the 
old  maid  was  merely  sensible ;  but  she  discovered  so  much 
goodness,  so  much  usefulness,  so  much  mildness,  patience, 
truth,  that  she  bent  her  own  mind  before  Miss  Ainley's  in 
reverence.  What  was  her  love  of  natui-e,  what  was  her  sense 
of  beauty,  what  were  her  more  varied  and  fervent  emotions, 
what  was  her  deeper  power  of  thought,  what  her  wider 
capacity  to  comprehend,  compared  to  the  practical  excellence 
of  this  good  woman  ?  Momently,  they  seemed  only  beautiful 
forms  of  selfish  delight ;  mentally,  she  trod  them  under  foot. 

It  is  true,  she  still  felt  with  pain  that  the  life  which  made 
Miss  Ainley  happy  could  not  make  her  happy :  pure  and  active 
as  it  was,  in  her  heart  she  deemed  it  deeply  dreary  because 
it  was  so  loveless — to  her  ideas,  so  forlorn.  Yet,  doubtless, 
she  reflected,  it  needed  only  habit  to  make  it  practicable  and 
agreeable  to  any  one :  it  was  despicable,  she  felt,  to  pine 
sentimentally,  to  cherish  secret  griefs,  vain  memories  ;  to  be 
inert,  to  waste  youth  in  aching  languor,  to  grow  old  doing 
nothing. 

'I  will  bestir  myself,'  was  her  resolution,  'and  try  to  bo 
wise  if  I  cannot  be  good.' 

She  proceeded  to  make  inquiry  of  Miss  Ainley,  if  she  could 
help  her  in  anything.  Miss  Ainley,  glad  of  an  assistant,  told 


190  SHIRLEY 

her  that  she  could,  and  indicated  some  poor  families  in 
Briarfield  that  it  was  desirable  she  should  visit ;  giving  her 
likewise,  at  her  further  request,  some  work  to  do  for  certain 
poor  women  who  had  many  children,  and  who  were  unskilled 
in  using  the  needle  for  themselves. 

Caroline  went  home,  laid  her  plans,  and  took  a  resolve  not 
to  swerve  from  them.  She  allotted  a  certain  portion  of  her 
time  for  her  various  studies,  and  a  certain  portion  for  doing 
anything  Miss  Ainley  might  direct  her  to  do  ;  the  remainder 
was  to  be  spent  in  exercise  ;  not  a  moment  was  to  be  left  for 
the  indulgence  of  such  fevered  thoughts  as  had  poisoned  last 
Sunday  evening. 

To  do  her  justice,  she  executed  her  plans  conscientiously, 
perse veringly.  It  was  very  hard  work  at  first — it  was  even 
hard  work  to  the  end,  but  it  helped  her  to  stem  and  keep 
down  anguish  :  it  forced  her  to  be  employed  ;  it  forebade  her 
to  brood  :  and  gleams  of  satisfaction  chequered  her  gray  life 
here  and  there  when  she  found  she  had  done  good,  imparted 
pleasure,  or  allayed  suffering. 

Yet  I  must  speak  truth ;  these  efforts  brought  her 
neither  health  of  body  nor  continued  peace  of  mind  :  with 
them  all,  she  wasted,  grew  more  joyless  and  more  wan  ;  with 
them  all,  her  memory  kept  harping  on  the  name  of  Robert 
Moore :  an  elegy  over  the  past  still  rung  constantly  in  her 
ear  ;  a  funereal  inward  cry  haunted  and  harassed  her  :  the 
heaviness  of  a  broken  spirit,  and  of  pining  and  palsying 
faculties,  settled  slow  on  her  buoyant  youth.  Winter  seemed 
conquering  her  spring  :  the  mind's  soil  and  its  treasures  were 
freezing  gradually  to  barren  stagnation. 


CHAPTEE  XI 

FIELDHEAD 

YET  Caroline  refused  tamely  to  succumb  :  she  had  native 
strength  in  her  girl's  heart,  and  she  used  it.  Men  and  women 
never  struggle  so  hard  as  when  they  straggle  alone,  without 
witness,  counsellor,  or  confidant ;  unencouraged,  unadvised, 
and  unpitied. 

Miss  Helstone  was  in  this  position.  Her  sufferings  were 
her  only  spur ;  and  being  very  real  and  sharp,  they  roused 
her  spirit  keenly.  Bent  on  victory  over  a  mortal  pain,  she 
did  her  best  to  quell  it.  Never  had  she  been  seen  so  busy, 
so  studious,  and,  above  all,  so  active.  She  took  walks  in  all 
weathers — long  walks  in  solitary  directions.  Day  by  day  she 
came  back  in  the  evening,  pale  and  wearied-looking,  yet 
seemingly  not  fatigued  ;  for  still,  as  soon  as  she  had  thrown 
off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she  would,  instead  of  resting,  begin 
to  pace  her  apartment :  sometimes  she  would  not  sit  down  till 
she  was  literally  faint.  She  said  she  did  this  to  tire  herself 
well,  that  she  might  sleep  soundly  at  night.  But  if  that  was 
her  aim  it  was  unattained,  for  at  night,  when  others  slum- 
bered, she  was  tossing  on  her  pillow,  or  sitting  at  the  foot  of 
her  couch  in  the  darkness,  forgetful,  apparently,  of  the 
necessity  of  seeking  repose.  Often,  unhappy  girl !  she  was 
crying — crying  in  a  sort  of  intolerable  despair,  which,  when 
it  rushed  over  her,  smote  down  her  strength,  and  reduced  her 
to  childlike  helplessness. 

When  thus  prostrate,  temptations  besieged  her  :  weak 
suggestions  whispered  in  her  weary  heart  to  write  to  Robert, 
and  say  that  she  was  unhappy  because  she  was  forbidden  to 
see  him  and  Hortense,  and  that  she  feared  he  would  with- 


192  SHIELEY 

draw  his  friendship  (not  love)  from  her,  and  forget  her  en- 
tii-ely,  and  begging  him  to  remember  her,  and  sometimes  to 
write  to  her.  One  or  two  such  letters  she  actually  indited, 
but  she  never  sent  them  :  shame  and  good  sense  forbade. 

At  last  the  life  she  led  reached  the  point  when  it  seemed 
she  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  that  she  must  seek  and  find  a 
change  somehow,  or  her  heart  and  head  would  fail  under  the 
pressure  which  strained  them.  She  louged  to  leave  Briarfield, 
to  go  to  some  very  distant  place.  She  longed  for  something 
else :  the  deep,  secret,  anxious  yearning  to  discover  and 
know  her  mother  strengthened  daily ;  but  with  the  desire 
was  coupled  a  doubt,  a  dread — if  she  knew  her,  could  she 
love  her  ?  There  was  cause  for  hesitation,  for  apprehension 
on  this  point :  never  in  her  life  had  she  heard  that  mother 
praised :  whoever  mentioned  her,  mentioned  her  coolly.  Her 
uncle  seemed  to  regard  his  sister-in-law  with  a  sort  of  tacit 
antipathy  :  an  old  servant,  who  had  lived  with  Mrs.  James 
Helstone  for  a  short  time  after  her  marriage,  whenever  she 
referred  to  her  former  mistress,  spoke  with  chilling  reserve  : 
sometimes  she  called  her '  queer,'  sometimes  she  said  she  did 
not  understand  her.  These  expressions  were  ice  to  the 
daughter's  heart ;  they  suggested  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
perhaps  better  never  to  know  her  parent,  than  to  know  her 
and  not  like  her. 

But  one  project  could  she  frame  whose  execution  seemed 
likely  to  bring  her  a  hope  of  relief ;  it  was  to  take  a  situation, 
to  be  a  governess — she  could  do  nothing  else.  A  little  inci- 
dent brought  her  to  the  point,  when  she  found  courage  to 
break  her  design  to  her  uncle. 

Her  long  and  late  walks  lay  always,  as  has  been  said,  on 
lonely  roads  ;  but  in  whatever  direction  she  had  rambled, 
whether  along  the  drear  skirts  of  Stilbro*  Moor,  or  over  the 
sunny  stretch  of  Nunnely  Common,  her  homeward  path  was 
still  so  contrived  as  to  lead  her  near  the  Hollow.  She  rarely 
descended  the  den,  but  she  visited  its  brink  at  twilight  almost 
as  regularly  as  the  stars  rose  over  the  hill-crests.  Her  rest- 
ing-place was  at  a  certain  stile  under  a  certain  old  thorn: 


OAK  WELL    HALL,  NKAH    I'.IUSTAI.L    (llIK    AITltOAl  )l)    (riKLI)HKAD). 


FIELDHEAD  193 

thence  she  could  look  down  on  the  cottage,  the  mill,  the  dewy 
garden-ground,  the  still,  deep  dam  ;  thence  was  visible  the 
well-known  counting-house  window,  from  whose  panes  at  a 
fixed  hour  shot,  suddenly  bright,  the  ray  of  the  well-known 
lamp.  Her  errand  was  to  watch  for  this  ray  :  her  reward  to 
catch  it,  sometimes  sparkling  bright  in  clear  air,  sometimes 
shimmering  dim  through  mist,  and  anon  flashing  broken 
between  slant  lines  of  rain — for  she  came  in  all  weathers. 

There  were  nights  when  it  failed  to  appear :  she  knew 
then  that  Eobert  was  from  home,  and  went  away  doubly 
sad  ;  whereas  its  kindling  rendered  her  elate,  as  though  she 
saw  in  it  the  promise  of  some  indefinite  hope.  If,  while  she 
gazed,  a  shadow  bent  between  the  light  and  lattice,  her 
heart  leaped — that  eclipse  was  Kobevt :  she  had  seen  him. 
She  would  return  home  comforted,  carrying  in  her  mind  a 
clearer  vision  of  his  aspect,  a  distincter  recollection  of  his 
voice,  his  smile,  his  bearing ;  and,  blent  with  these  impres- 
sions, was  often  a  sweet  persuasion  that,  if  she  could  get 
near  him,  his  heart  might  welcome  her  presence  yet :  that 
at  this  moment  he  might  be  willing  to  extend  his  hand  and 
draw  her  to  him,  and  shelter  her  at  his  side  as  he  used 
to  do.  That  night,  though  she  might  weep  as  usual,  she 
would  fancy  her  tears  less  scalding  ;  the  pillow  they  watered 
seemed  a  little  softer ;  the  temples  pressed  to  that  pillow 
ached  less. 

The  shortest  path  from  the  Hollow  to  the  Rectory  wound 
near  a  certain  mansion,  the  same  under  whoso  lone  walls 
Malone  passed  on  that  night-journey  mentioned  in  an  early 
chapter  of  this  work — the  old  and  tenantless  dwelling  yclept 
Fieldhead.  Tenantless  by  the  proprietor  it  had  been  for  ten 
years,  but  it  was  no  ruin :  Mr.  Yorke  had  seen  it  kept  in 
good  repair,  and  an  old  gardener  and  his  wife  had  lived  in  it, 
cultivated  the  grounds,  and  maintained  the  house  in  habit- 
able condition. 

If  Fieldhead  had  few  other  merits  as  a  building,  it  might 
at  least  be  termed  picturesque  :  its  irregular  architecture, 
and  the  gray  and  mossy  colouring  communicated  by  time, 


194  SHIRLEY 

gave  it  a  just  claim  to  this  epithet.  The  old  latticed 
windows,  the  stone  porch,  the  walls,  the  roof,  the  chimney- 
stacks,  were  rich  in  crayon  touches  and  sepia  lights  and 
shades.  The  trees  behind  were  fine,  bold,  and  spreading ; 
the  cedar  on  the  lawn  in  front  was  grand,  and  the  granite 
urns  on  the  garden  wall,  the  fretted  arch  of  the  gateway, 
were,  for  an  artist,  as  the  very  desire  of  the  eye. 

One  mild  May  evening,  Caroline  passing  near  about 
moonrise,  and  feeling,  though  weary,  unwilling  yet  to  go 
home,  where  there  was  only  the  bed  of  thorns  and  the  night 
of  gi'ief  to  anticipate,  sat  down  on  the  mossy  ground  near 
the  gate,  and  gazed  through  towards  cedar  and  mansion.  It 
was  a  still  night — calm,  dewy,  cloudless  :  the  gables,  turned 
to  the  west,  reflected  the  clear  amber  of  the  horizon  they 
faced  ;  the  oaks  behind  were  black  ;  the  cedar  was  blacker  ; 
under  its  dense,  raven  boughs  a  glimpse  of  sky  opened 
gravely  blue :  it  was  full  of  the  moon,  which  looked 
solemnly  and  mildly  down  on  Caroline  from  beneath  that 
sombre  canopy. 

She  felt  this  night  and  prospect  mournfully  lovely.  She 
wished  she  could  be  happy :  she  wished  she  could  know 
inward  peace  :  she  wondered  Providence  had  no  pity  on  her, 
and  would  not  help  or  console  her.  Recollections  of  happy 
trysts  of  lovers,  commemorated  in  old  ballads,  returned  on 
her  mind  :  she  thought  such  tryst  in  such  scene  would  be 
blissful.  Where  now  was  Robert?  she  asked:  not  at  the 
Hollow  :  she  had  watched  for  his  lamp  long,  and  had  not 
seen  it.  She  questioned  within  herself  whether  she  and 
Moore  were  ever  destined  to  meet  and  speak  again. 
Suddenly  the  door  within  the  stone  porch  of  the  Hall 
opened,  and  two  men  came  out :  one  elderly  and  white- 
headed,  the  other  young,  dark-haired,  and  tall.  They 
passed  across  the  lawn,  out  through  a  portal  in  the  garden 
wall :  Caroline  saw  them  cross  the  road,  pass  the  stile, 
descend  the  fields  ;  she  saw  them  disappear.  Robert  Moore 
had  passed  before  her  with  his  friend  Mr.  Yorke  :  neither 
had  seen  her. 


FIELDHEAD  195 

The  apparition  had  been  transient — scarce  seen  ere  gone ; 
but  its  electric  passage  left  her  veins  kindled,  her  soul 
insurgent.  It  found  her  despairing  :  it  left  her  desperate — 
two  different  states. 

'  Oh !  had  he  but  been  alone !  Had  he  but  seen  me  ! ' 
was  her  cry,  '  he  would  have  said  something ;  he  would 
have  given  me  his  hand.  He  docs,  he  must  love  me  a  little : 
he  would  have  shown  some  token  of  affection :  in  his  eye, 
on  his  lips,  I  should  have  read  comfort :  but  the  chance  is 
lost.  The  wind — the  cloud's  shadow  does  not  pass  more 
silently,  more  emptily  than  he.  I  have  been  mocked,  and 
Heaven  is  cruel ! ' 

Thus,  in  the  utter  sickness  of  longing  and  disappoint- 
ment, she  went  home. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast,  where  she  appeared 
white-cheeked  and  miserable-looking  as  one  who  had  seen 
a  ghost,  she  inquired  of  Mr.  Helstone — '  Have  you  any 
objection,  uncle,  to  my  inquiring  for  a  situation  in  a 
family  ? ' 

Her  uncle,  ignorant  as  the  table  supporting  his  coffee-cup 
of  all  his  niece  had  undergone  and  was  undergoing,  scarcely 
believed  his  ears. 

'What  whim  now?'  he  asked.  'Are  you  bewitched? 
What  can  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not  well,  and  need  a  change,'  she  said. 

He  examined  her.  He  discovered  she  had  experienced 
a  change,  at  any  rate.  Without  his  being  aware  of  it,  the 
rose  had  dwindled  and  faded  to  a  mere  snow-drop :  bloom 
had  vanished,  flesh  wasted ;  she  sat  before  him  drooping, 
colourless,  and  thin.  But  for  the  soft  expression  of  her 
brown  eyes,  the  delicate  lines  of  her  features,  and  the  flow- 
ing abundance  of  her  hair,  she  would  no  longer  have 
possessed  a  claim  to  the  epithet — pretty. 

'  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you  ? '  he  asked. 
'  What  is  wrong  ?  How  are  you  ailing  ? ' 

No  answer,  only  the  brown  eyes  lilled,  the  faintly-tinted 
lips  trembled. 


196  SHIRLEY 

'  Look  out  for  a  situation,  indeed !  For  what  situation 
are  you  fit  ?  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  ? 
You  are  not  well.' 

'  I  should  be  well  if  I  went  from  home.' 

'  These  women  are  incomprehensible.  They  have  the 
strangest  knack  of  startling  you  with  unpleasant  surprises. 
To-day  you  see  them  bouncing,  buxom,  red  as  cherries,  and 
round  as  apples ;  to-morrow  they  exhibit  themselves  effete 
as  dead  weeds,  blanched  and  broken  down.  And  the  reason 
of  it  all  ?  That's  the  puzzle.  She  has  her  meals,  her  liberty, 
a  good  house  to  live  in,  and  good  clothes  to  wear,  as  usual : 
a  while  since  that  sufficed  to  keep  her  handsome  and  cheery, 
and  there  she  sits  now  a  poor,  little,  pale,  puling  chit  enough. 
Provoking !  Then  comes  the  question,  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
I  suppose  I  must  send  for  advice.  Will  you  have  a  doctor, 
child  ? ' 

'  No,  uncle  ;  I  don't  want  one  :  a  doctor  could  do  me  no 
good.  I  merely  want  change  of  air  and  scene.' 

'  Well,  if  that  be  the  caprice,  it  shall  be  gratified.  You 
shall  go  to  a  watering-place.  I  don't  mind  the  expense  : 
Fanny  shall  accompany  you.' 

'  But,  uncle,  some  day  I  must  do  something  for  myself ; 
I  have  no  fortune.  I  had  better  begin  now.' 

1  While  I  live,  you  shall  not  turn  out  as  a  governess, 
Caroline.  I  will  not  have  it  said  that  my  niece  is  a 
governess.' 

'  But  the  later  in  life  one  makes  a  change  of  that  sort, 
uncle,  the  more  difficult  and  painful  it  is.  I  should  wish  to 
get  accustomed  to  the  yoke  before  any  habits  of  ease  and 
independence  are  formed.' 

'  I  beg  you  will  not  harass  me,  Caroline.  I  mean  to  pro- 
vide for  you.  I  have  always  meant  to  provide  for  you  :  I  will 
purchase  an  annuity.  Bless  me ;  I  am  but  fifty-five  ;  my 
health  and  constitution  are  excellent :  there  is  plenty  of 
time  to  save  and  take  measures.  Don't  make  yourself 
anxious  respecting  the  future  :  is  that  what  frets  you  ?  ' 

'  No,  uncle  ;  but  I  long  for  a  change.' 


FIELDHEAD  197 

He  laughed.  '  There  speaks  the  woman  ! '  cried  he,  '  the 
very  woman  !  A  change  !  a  change  !  Always  fantastical 
and  whimsical !  Well,  it's  in  her  sex.' 

4  But  it  is  not  fantasy  and  whim,  uncle.' 

1  What  is  it  then  ? ' 

1  Necessity,  I  think.  I  feel  weaker  than  formerly ;  I 
believe  I  should  have  more  to  do.' 

'  Admirable  !  She  feels  weak,  and  therefore  she  should 
be  set  to  hard  labour — "  cluir  comme  le  jour  " — as  Moore 
— confound  Moore !  You  shall  go  to  Cliff-bridge  ;  and 
there  are  two  guineas  to  buy  a  new  frock.  Come,  Gary, 
never  fear  :  we'll  find  balm  in  Gilead.' 

'  Uncle,  I  wish  you  were  less  generous,  and  more — 

1  More  what  ? ' 

Sympathizing  was  the  word  on  Caroline's  lips,  but  it  was 
not  uttered  :  she  checked  herself  in  time  :  her  uncle  would 
indeed  have  laughed  if  that  namby-pamby  word  had  escaped 
her.  Finding  her  silent,  he  said, — '  The  fact  is,  you  don't 
know  precisely  what  you  want.' 

'  Only  to  be  a  governess.' 

'  Pooh  !  mere  nonsense  !  I'll  not  hear  of  governessing. 
Don't  mention  it  again.  It  is  rather  too  feminine  a  fancy. 
I  have  finished  breakfast,  ring  the  bell :  put  all  crotchets 
out  of  your  head,  and  run  away  and  amuse  yourself.' 

'  What  with  ?  My  doll  ?  '  asked  Caroline  to  herself  as 
she  quitted  the  room. 

A  week  or  two  passed  ;  her  bodily  and  mental  health 
neither  grew  worse  nor  better.  She  was  now  precisely  in 
that  state  when,  if  her  constitution  had  contained  the  seeds 
of  consumption,  decline,  or  slow  fever,  those  diseases  would 
have  been  rapidly  developed,  and  would  soon  have  carried 
her  quietly  from  the  world.  People  never  die  of  love  or 
grief  alone  ;  though  some  die  of  inherent  maladies,  which  the 
tortures  of  those  passions  prematurely  force  into  destructive 
action.  The  sound  by  nature  undergo  these  tortures,  and 
are  racked,  shaken,  shattered :  their  beauty  and  bloom 
perish,  but  life  remains  untouched.  They  are  brought  to  a 


198  SHIRLEY 

certain  point  of  dilapidation  ;  they  are  reduced  to  pallor, 
debility,  and  emaciation.  People  think,  as  they  see  them 
gliding  languidly  about,  that  they  will  soon  withdraw  to 
sick-beds,  perish  there,  and  cease  from  among  the  healthy 
and  happy.  This  does  not  happen :  they  live  on ;  and 
though  they  cannot  regain  youth  and  gaiety,  they  may 
regain  strength  and  serenity.  The  blossom  which  the  March 
wind  nips,  but  fails  to  sweep  away,  may  survive  to  hang  a 
withered  apple  on  the  tree  late  into  autumn  :  having  braved 
the  last  frosts  of  spring,  it  may  also  brave  the  first  of 
winter. 

Every  one  noticed  the  change  in  Miss  Helstone's  appear- 
rance,  and  most  people  said  she  was  going  to  die.  She  never 
thought  so  herself :  she  felt  in  no  dying  case ;  she  had  neither 
pain  nor  sickness.  Her  appetite  was  diminished  ;  she  knew 
the  reason  :  it  was  because  she  wept  so  much  at  night.  Her 
strength  was  lessened ;  she  could  account  for  it ;  sleep  was 
coy  and  hard  to  be  won ;  dreams  were  distressing  and  bale- 
ful. In  the  far  future  she  still  seemed  to  anticipate  a  time 
when  this  passage  of  misery  should  be  got  over,  and  when 
she  should  once  more  be  calm,  though  perhaps  never  again 
happy. 

Meanwhile  her  uncle  urged  her  to  visit ;  to  comply  with 
the  frequent  invitations  of  their  acquaintance :  this  she 
evaded  doing ;  she  could  not  be  cheerful  in  company ;  she  felt 
she  was  observed  there  with  more  curiosity  than  sympathy. 
Old  ladies  were  always  offering  her  their  advice,  recommend- 
ing this  or  that  nostrum  ;  young  ladies  looked  at  her  in  a  way 
she  understood,  and  from  which  she  shrank.  Their  eyes  said 
they  knew  she  had  been  '  disappointed,'  as  custom  phrases  it : 
by  whom,  they  were  not  certain. 

Commonplace  young  ladies  can  be  quite  as  hard  as 
commonplace  young  gentlemen — quite  as  worldly  and  selfish. 
Those  who  suffer  should  always  avoid  them  ;  grief  and 
calamity  they  despise :  they  seem  to  regard  them  as  the 
judgments  of  God  on  the  lowly.  With  them,  to  '  love  '  is 
merely  to  contrive  a  scheme  for  achieving  a  good  match  :  to 


FtELDHEAft  190 

be  '  disappointed '  is  to  have  their  scheme  seen  through  and 
frustrated.  They  think  the  feelings  and  projects  of  others  on 
the  subject  of  love  similar  to  their  own,  and  judge  them 
accordingly. 

All  this  Caroline  knew,  partly  by  instinct,  partly  by 
observation  :  she  regulated  her  conduct  by  her  knowledge, 
keeping  her  pale  face  and  wasted  figure  as  much  out  of  sight 
as  she  could.  Living  thus  in  complete  seclusion,  she  ceased 
to  receive  intelligence  of  the  little  transactions  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

One  morning  her  uncle  came  into  the  parlour,  where  she 
sat  endeavouring  to  find  some  pleasure  in  painting  a  little 
group  of  wild  flowers,  gathered  under  a  hedge  at  the  top  of 
the  Hollow  fields,  and  said  to  her  in  his  abrupt  manner  : — 
'  Come,  child,  you  are  always  stooping  over  palette,  or  book, 
or  sampler :  leave  that  tinting  work.  By-the-by,  do  you  put 
your  pencil  to  you  lips  when  you  paint  ? ' 

1  Sometimes,  uncle,  when  I  forget.' 

1  Then  it  is  that  which  is  poisoning  you.  The  paints  are 
deleterious,  child  :  there  is  white  lead,  and  red  lead,  and 
verdigris,  and  gamboge,  and  twenty  other  poisons  in  those 
colour  cakes.  Lock  them  up  !  lock  them  up !  Get  your 
bonnet  on  :  I  want  you  to  make  a  call  with  me.' 

1  With  you,  uncle  ?  ' 

This  question  was  asked  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  She  was 
not  accustomed  to  make  calls  with  her  uncle  :  she  never  rode 
or  walked  out  with  him  on  any  occasion. 

'  Quick  !  quick  !  I  am  always  busy,  you  know  :  I  have  no 
time  to  lose.' 

She  hurriedly  gathered  up  her  materials,  asking,  mean- 
time, where  they  were  going. 

'  To  Fieldhead.' 

'  Fieldhead  !  What,  to  see  old  James  Booth,  the  gar- 
dener ?  Is  he  ill  ?  ' 

'  We  are  going  to  see  Miss  Shirley  Keeldar.' 

1  Miss  Keeldar  !  Is  she  come  to  Yorkshire  ?  Is  she  at 
Fieldhead  ?  ' 


200  SHIKLEY 

1  She  is.  She  has  been  there  a  week.  I  met  her  at  a 
party  last  night — that  party  to  which  you  would  not  go.  I 
was  pleased  with  her :  I  choose  that  you  shall  make  her 
acquaintance  :  it  will  do  you  good.' 

1  She  is  now  come  of  age,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  She  is  come  of  age,  and  will  reside  for  a  time  on  her 
property.  I  lectured  her  on  the  subject  :  I  showed  her  her 
duty  :  she  is  not  intractable ;  she  is  rather  a  fine  girl ;  she 
will  teach  you  what  it  is  to  have  a  sprightly  spirit :  nothing 
lackadaisical  about  her.' 

'  I  don't  think  she  will  want  to  see  me,  or  to  have  me 
introduced  to  her.  What  good  can  I  do  her  ?  How  can  I 
amuse  her  ? ' 

'  Pshaw  !     Put  your  bonnet  on.' 

'  Is  she  proud,  uncle  ?  ' 

'  Don't  know.  You  hardly  imagine  she  would  show  her 
pride  to  me,  I  suppose?  A  chit  like  that  would  scarcely 
presume  to  give  herself  airs  with  the  Kector  of  her  parish, 
however  rich  she  might  be.' 

'  No — but  how  did  she  behave  to  other  people  ?  ' 

1  Didn't  observe.  She  holds  her  head  high,  and  probably 
can  be  saucy  enough  where  she  dare — she  wouldn't  be 
a  woman  otherwise.  There, — away  now  for  your  bonnet  at 
once  ! ' 

Not  naturally  very  confident,  a  failure  of  physical 
strength  and  a  depression  of  spirits  had  not  tended  to 
increase  Caroline's  presence  of  mind  and  ease  of  manner,  or 
to  give  her  additional  courage  to  face  strangers,  and  she 
quailed,  in  spite  of  self-remonstrance,  as  she  and  her  uncle 
walked  up  the  broad,  paved  approach  leading  from  the  gate- 
way of  Fieldhead  to  its  porch.  She  followed  Mr.  Helstone 
reluctantly  through  that  porch  into  the  sombre  old  vestibule 
beyond. 

Very  sombre  it  was ;  long,  vast,  and  dark :  one  latticed 
window  lit  it  but  dimly  ;  the  wide  old  chimney  contained  now 
no  tire,  for  the  present  warm  we  i.ther  noedecl  it  not ;  it  was 
filled  instead  with  willow-boughs.  The  gallery  on  high, 


FIELDHEAD  201 

opposite  the  entrance,  was  seen  but  in  outline,  so  shadowy 
became  this  hall  towards  its  ceiling ;  carved  stags'  heads, 
with  real  antlers,  looked  down  grotesquely  from  the  walls. 
This  was  neither  a  grand  nor  a  comfortable  house :  within 
as  without  it  was  antique,  rambling,  and  incommodious.  A 
property  of  a  thousand  a  year  belonged  to  it ;  which 
property  had  descended,  for  lack  of  male  heirs,  on  a  female. 
There  were  mercantile  families  in  the  district  boasting  twice 
the  income,  but  the  Keeldars,  by  virtue  of  their  antiquity, 
and  their  distinction  of  lords  of  the  manor,  took  the 
precedence  of  all. 

Mr.  and  Miss  Helstone  were  ushered  into  a  parlour :  of 
course,  as  was  to  be  expected  in  such  a  gothic  old  barrack, 
this  parlour  was  lined  with  oak  :  fine  dark,  glossy  panels 
compassed  the  walls  gloomily  and  grandly.  Very  hand- 
some, reader,  these  shining,  brown  panels  are  :  very  mellow  in 
colouring  and  tasteful  in  effect,  but — if  you  know  what  a 
'  Spring  clean  '  is — very  execrable  and  inhuman.  Whoever, 
having  the  bowels  of  humanity,  has  seen  servants  scrubbing 
at  these  polished  wooden  walls  with  bees-waxed  cloths  on  a 
warm  May  day,  must  allow  that  they  are  '  tolerable  and  not 
to  be  endured  ; '  and  I  cannot  but  secretly  applaud  the 
benevolent  barbarian  who  had  painted  another  and  larger 
apartment  of  Fieldhead — the  drawing-room  to  wit,  formerly 
also  an  oak-room — of  a  delicate  pinky  white  ;  thereby  earn- 
ing for  himself  the  character  of  a  Hun,  but  mightily  enhanc- 
ing the  cheerfulness  of  that  portion  of  his  abode,  and  saving 
future  housemaids  a  world  of  toil. 

The  brown-panelled  parlour  was  furnished  all  in  old 
style,  and  with  real  old  furniture.  On  each  side  of  the  high 
mantelpiece  stood  two  antique  chairs  of  oak,  solid  as  sylvan 
thrones,  and  in  one  of  these  sat  a  lady.  But  if  this  were 
Miss  Keeldar,  she  must  have  come  of  age  at  least  some  twenty 
years  ago  :  she  was  of  matronly  form,  and  though  she  wore 
no  cap,  and  possessed  hair  of  quite  an  undimmed  auburn, 
shading  small  and  naturally  young-looking  features,  she  had 
no  youthful  aspect,  nor  apparently  the  wish  to  assume  it. 


202  SHIBLEY 

You  could  have  wished  her  attire  of  a  newer  fashion :  in  a 
well-cut,  well-made  gown,  hers  would  have  been  no  un- 
comely presence.  It  puzzled  you  to  guess  why  a  garment 
of  handsome  materials  should  be  arranged  in  such  scanty 
fold^,  and  devised  after  such  an  obsolete  mode  :  you  felt 
disposed  to  set  down  the  wearer  as  somewhat  eccentric  at 
once. 

This  lady  received  the  visitors  with  a  mixture  of 
ceremony  and  diffidence  quite  English :  no  middle-aged 
matron  who  was  not  an  Englishwoman  could  evince 
precisely  the  same  manner;  a  manner  so  uncertain  of  her- 
self, of  her  own  merits,  of  her  power  to  please ;  and  yet  so 
anxious  to  be  proper,  and  if  possible,  rather  agreeable  than 
otherwise.  In  the  present  instance,  however,  more  em- 
barrassment was  shown  than  is  usual  even  with  diffident 
Englishwomen :  Miss  Helstone  felt  this,  sympathized 
with  the  stranger,  and,  knowing  by  experience  what  was 
good  for  the  timid,  took  a  seat  quietly  near  her,  and  began 
to  talk  to  her  with  a  gentle  ease,  communicated  for  the 
moment  by  the  presence  of  one  less  self-possessed  than 
herself. 

She  and  this  lady  would,  if  alone,  have  at  once  got  on 
extremely  well  together.  The  lady  had  the  clearest  voice 
imaginable :  infinitely  softer  and  more  tuneful  than  could 
have  been  reasonably  expected  from  forty  years,  and  a  form 
decidedly  inclined  to  embonpoint.  This  voice  Caroline 
liked ;  it  atoned  for  the  formal,  if  correct,  accent  and 
language  :  the  lady  would  soon  have  discovered  she  liked  it 
and  her,  and  in  ten  minutes  they  would  have  been  fi'iends. 
But  Mr.  Helstone  stood  on  the  rug  looking  at  them  both ; 
looking  especially  at  the  strange  lady  with  his  sai'castic, 
keen  eye,  that  clearly  expressed  impatience  of  her  chilly 
ceremony,  and  annoyance  at  her  want  of  aplomb.  His  hard 
gaze  and  rasping  voice  discomfited  the  lady  more  and  more; 
she  tried,  however,  to  get  up  little  speeches  about  the 
weather,  the  aspect  of  the  country,  £c.,  but  the  impracti- 
cable Mr.  Helstone  preseptly  found  himself  somewhat  deaf ; 


FIELDHEAD  203 

whatever  she  said,  he  affected  not  to  hear  distinctly,  and  she 
was  obliged  to  go  over  each  elaborately  constructed  nothing 
twice.  The  effort  soon  became  too  much  for  her  ;  she  was 
just  rising  in  a  perplexed  flutter,  nervously  murmuring  that 
she  knew  not  what  detained  Miss  Keeldar — that  she  would  go 
and  look  for  her,  when  Miss  Keeldar  saved  her  the  trouble 
by  appearing :  it  was  to  be  presumed  at  least  that  she  who 
now  came  in  through  a  glass-door  from  the  garden  owned 
that  name. 

There  is  real  grace  in  ease  of  manner,  and  so  old  Helstone 
felt  when  an  erect,  slight  girl  walked  up  to  him,  retaining 
with  her  left  hand  her  little  silk  apron  full  of  flowers,  and, 
giving  him  her  right  hand,  said  pleasantly : — '  I  knew  you 
would  come  to  see  me,  though  you  do  think  Mr.  Yorke  has 
made  me  a  Jacobin.  Good  morning.' 

1  But  we'll  not  have  you  a  Jacobin,"  returned  he.  '  No, 
Miss  Shirley,  they  shall  not  steal  the  flower  of  my  parish 
from  me :  now  that  you  are  amongst  us,  you  shall  be  my 
pupil  in  politics  and  religion  :  I'll  teach  you  sound  doctrine 
on  both  points.' 

'  Mrs.  Pryor  has  anticipated  you,'  she  replied,  turning  to 
the  elder  lady.  Mrs.  Pryor,  you  know,  was  my  governess, 
and  is  still  my  friend  ;  and  of  all  the  high  and  rigid  Tories, 
she  is  queen ;  of  all  the  stanch  churchwomen,  she  is  chief. 
I  have  been  well  drilled  both  in  theology  and  history,  I 
assure  you,  Mr.  Helstone.' 

The  Kector  immediately  bowed  very  low  to  Mrs.  Pryor, 
and  expressed  himself  obliged  to  her. 

The  ex-governess  disclaimed  skill  either  in  political  or 
religious  controversy,  explained  that  she  thought  such 
matters  little  adapted  for  female  minds,  but  avowed  herself 
in  general  terms  the  advocate  of  order  and  loyalty,  and,  of 
course,  truly  attached  to  the  Establishment.  She  added, 
she  was  ever  averse  to  change  under  any  circumstances  ;  and 
something  scarcely  audible  about  the  extreme  danger  of 
being  too  ready  to  take  up  new  ideas,  closed  her  sentence. 
'  Miss  Keeldar  thinks  as  you  think,  I  hope,  madam  ? ' 


204  SHIELEY 

'  Difference  of  age  and  difference  of  temperament  occasion 
difference  of  sentiment,'  was  the  reply.  '  It  can  scarcely  be 
expected  that  the  eager  and  young  should  hold  the  opinions 
of  the  cool  and  middle-aged.' 

'  Oh  !  oh  !  we  are  independent :  we  think  for  ourselves !  ' 
cried  Mr.  Helstone.  '  We  are  a  little  Jacobin,  for  anything 
I  know  :  a  little  freethinker,  in  good  earnest.  Let  us  have 
a  confession  of  faith  on  the  spot.' 

And  he  took  the  heiress's  two  hands — causing  her  to  let 
fall  her  whole  cargo  of  flowers — and  seated  her  by  him  on 
the  sofa. 

'  Say  your  creed,'  he  ordered. 

'  The  Apostles'  Creed  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

She  said  it  like  a  child. 

'  Now  for  St.  Athanasius's  :  that's  the  test !  ' 

'  Let  me  gather  up  my  flowers :  here  is  Tartar  coming,  he 
will  tread  upon  them.' 

Tartar  was  a  rather  large,  strong,  and  fierce-looking  dog, 
very  ugly,  being  of  a  breed  between  mastiff  and  bull-dog, 
who  at  this  moment  entered  through  the  glass-door,  and 
posting  directly  to  the  rug,  snuffed  the  fresh  flowers 
scattered  there.  He  seemed  to  scorn  them  as  food;  but 
probably  thinking  their  velvety  petals  might  be  convenient 
as  litter,  he  was  turning  round  preparatory  to  depositing  his 
tawny  bulk  upon  them,  when  Miss  Helstone  and  Miss 
Kecldar  simultaneously  stooped  to  the  rescue. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  the  heiress,  as  she  again  held  out  her 
little  apron  for  Caroline  to  heap  the  blossoms  into  it.  '  Is 
this  your  daughter,  Mr.  Helstone  ? '  she  asked. 

'  My  niece,  Caroline.' 

Miss  Keeldar  shook  hands  with  her,  and  then  looked  at 
her.  Caroline  also  looked  at  her  hostess. 

Shirley  Keeldar  (she  had  no  Christian  name  but  Shirley  : 
her  parents,  who  had  wished  to  have  a  son,  finding  that, 
after  eight  years  of  marriage,  Providence  had  granted  them 
only  a  daughter,  bestowed  on  her  the  same  masculine 


FIELDHEAD  205 

family  cognomen  they  would  have  bestowed  on  a  boy,  if  with 
a  boy  they  had  been  blessed) — Shirley  Keeldar  was  no  ugly 
heiress :  she  was  agreeable  to  the  eye.  Her  height  and 
shape  were  not  unlike  Miss  Helstone's :  perhaps  in  stature 
she  might  have  the  advantage  by  an  inch  or  two  ;  she  was 
gracefully  made,  and  her  face,  too,  possessed  a  charm  as 
well  described  by  the  word  grace  as  any  other.  It  was  pale 
naturally,  but  intelligent,  and  of  varied  expression.  She 
was  not  a  blonde,  like  Caroline  :  clear  and  dark  were  the 
characteristics  of  her  aspect  as  to  colour :  her  face  and  brow 
were  clear,  her  eyes  of  the  darkest  gray  :  no  green  lights  in 
them, — transparent,  pure,  neutral  gray:  and  her  hair  of 
the  darkest  brown.  Her  features  were  distinguished  ;  by 
which  I  do  not  mean  that  they  were  high,  bony,  and  Eoman, 
being  indeed  rather  small  and  slightly  marked  than  other- 
wise ;  but  only  that  they  were,  to  use  a  few  French  words, 
'  fins,  gracieux,  spirituels  :  '  mobile  they  were  and  speaking ; 
but  their  changes  were  not  to  be  understood,  nor  their 
language  interpreted  all  at  once.  She  examined  Caroline 
seriously,  inclining  her  head  a  little  to  one  side,  with  a 
thoughtful  air. 

'You  see  she  is  only  a  feeble  chick,'  observed  Mr. 
Helstone. 

'  She  looks  young — younger  than  I.  How  old  are  you  ? ' 
she  inquired  in  a  manner  that  would  have  been  patronising 
if  it  had  not  been  extremely  solemn  and  simple. 

I  Eighteen  years  and  six  months.' 
'  And  I  am  twenty-one.' 

She  said  no  more ;  she  had  now  placed  her  flowers  on 
the  table,  and  was  busied  in  arranging  them. 

'  And  St.  Athanasius's  Creed  ?  '  urged  the  Rector  ;  '  you 
believe  it  all — don't  you  ? ' 

I 1  can't  remember  it  quite  all.     I  will  give  you  a  nose- 
gay, Mr.  Helstone,  when  I  have  given  your  niece  one.' 

She  had  selected  a  little  bouquet  of  one  brilliant  and  two 
or  three  delicate  flowers,  relieved  by  a  spray  of  dark  ver- 
dure :  she  tied  it  with  silk  from  her  work-box,  and  placed 


206  SHIRLEY 

it  on  Caroline's  lap ;  and  then  she  put  her  hands  behind  her, 
and  stood  bending  slightly  towards  her  guest,  still  regarding 
her,  in  the  attitude  and  with  something  of  the  aspect  of  a 
grave  but  gallant  little  cavalier.  This  temporary  expression 
of  face  was  aided  by  the  style  in  which  she  wore  her  hair, 
parted  on  one  temple,  and  brushed  in  a  glossy  sweep  above 
the  forehead,  whence  it  fell  in  curls  that  looked  natural,  so 
free  were  their  wavy  undulations. 

'  Are  you  tired  with  your  walk  ? '  she  inquired. 

'  No — not  in  the  least ;  it  is  but  a  short  distance — but  a 
mile.' 

'  You  look  pale.  Is  she  always  so  pale  ? '  she  asked, 
turning  to  the  Rector. 

'  She  used  to  be  as  rosy  as  the  reddest  of  your  flowers.' 

'  Why  is  she  altered  ?  What  has  made  her  pale  ?  Has 
she  been  ill  ?  ' 

4  She  tells  me  she  wants  a  change.' 

'  She  ought  to  have  one :  you  ought  to  give  her  one  :  you 
should  send  her  to  the  seacoast.' 

'  I  will,  ere  summer  is  over.  Meantime,  I  intend  her  to 
make  acquaintance  with  you,  if  you  have  no  objection.' 

1 1  am  sure  Miss  Keeldar  will  have  no  objection,'  here 
observed  Mrs.  Pryor.  '  I  think  I  may  take  it  upon  me  to 
say  that  Miss  Helstone's  frequent  presence  at  Fieldhead  will 
be  esteemed  a  favour.' 

'  You  speak  my  sentiments  precisely,  ma'am,'  said 
Shirley,  '  and  I  thank  you  for  anticipating  me.  Let  me  tell 
you,'  she  continued,  turning  again  to  Caroline,  '  that  you  also 
ought  to  thank  my  governess ;  it  is  not  every  one  she  would 
welcome  as  she  has  welcomed  you  :  you  are  distinguished 
more  than  you  think.  This  morning,  as  soon  as  you  are 
gone,  I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Fryer's  opinion  of  you.  I  am  apt  to 
rely  on  her  judgment  of  character,  for  hitherto  I  have  found 
it  wondrous  accurate.  Already  I  foresee  a  favourable 
answer  to  my  inquiries  do  I  not  guess  rightly,  Mrs. 
Pryor?' 

'  My  dear — you  said  but  now  you  would  ask  my  opinion 


OAKWELL    HALL    (lXTKKI<  Hi)    (FIKLDHKAI')- 


FIELDHEAD  20? 

when  Miss  Helstone  was  gone ;  I  am  scarcely  likely  to  give 
it  in  her  presence.' 

1  No — and  perhaps  it  will  be  long  enough  before  I  obtain 
it.  I  am  sometimes  sadly  tantalised,  Mr.  Helstone,  by  Mrs. 
Pryor's  extreme  caution  :  her  judgments  ought  to  be  correct 
when  they  come,  for  they  are  often  as  tardy  of  delivery  as  a 
lord  chancellor's  :  on  some  people's  characters  I  cannot  get 
her  to  pronounce  sentence,  entreat  as  I  may.' 

Mrs.  Pryor  here  smiled. 

'  Yes,'  said  her  pupil,  '  I  know  what  that  smile  means  : 
you  are  thinking  of  my  gentleman-tenant.  Do  you  know  Mr. 
Moore  of  the  Hollow  ? '  she  asked  Mr.  Helstone. 

'  Ay  !  ay  !  your  tenant — so  he  is :  you  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  him,  no  doubt,  since  you  came  ? ' 

'  I  have  been  obliged  to  see  him  :  there  was  business  to 
transact.  Business  !  Eeally  the  word  makes  me  conscious 
I  am  indeed  no  longer  a  girl,  but  quite  a  woman  and  some- 
thing more.  I  am  an  esquire :  Shirley  Keeldar,  Esquire, 
ought  to  be  my  style  and  title.  They  gave  me  a  man's  name  ; 
I  hold  a  man's  position  :  it  is  enough  to  inspire  me  with  a  touch 
of  manhood  ;  and  when  I  see  such  people  as  that  stately 
Anglo-Belgian — that  Gerard  Moore  before  me,  gravely  talking 
to  me  of  business,  really  I  feel  quite  gentlemanlike.  You 
must  choose  me  for  your  churchwarden,  Mr.  Helstone,  the 
next  time  you  elect  new  ones :  they  ought  to  make  me  a 
magistrate  and  a  captain  of  yeomanry  :  Tony  Lumpkin's 
mother  was  a  colonel,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  the  peace — 
why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  ' 

'  With  all  my  heart.  If  you  choose  to  get  up  a  requisi- 
tion on  the  subject,  I  promise  to  head  the  list  of  signatures 
with  my  name.  But  you  were  speaking  of  Moore  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  yes.  I  find  it  a  little  difficult  to  understand  Mr. 
Moore — to  know  what  to  think  of  him  :  whether  to  like  him 
or  not.  He  seems  a  tenant  of  whom  any  proprietor  might 
be  proud — and  proud  of  him,  I  am,  in  that  sense  — but  as  a 
neighbour,  what  is  he  ?  Again  and  again  I  have  entreated 
Mrs.  Pryor  to  say  what  she  thinks  of  him,  but  she  still 


208  SHIRLEY 

evades  returning  a  direct  answer.  I  hope  you  will  be 
less  oracular,  Mr.  Helstone,  and  pronounce  at  once  :  do  you 
like  him  ? ' 

'  Not  at  all,  just  now :  his  name  is  entirely  blotted  from 
my  good  books.' 

1  What  is  the  matter  ?    What  has  he  done  ?  ' 

'  My  uncle  and  he  disagree  on  politics,'  interposed  the 
low  voice  of  Caroline.  She  had  better  not  have  spoken  just 
then  :  having  scarcely  joined  in  the  conversation  before,  it 
was  not  apropos  to  do  it  now :  she  felt  this,  with  nervous 
acuteness  as  soon  as  she  had  spoken,  and  coloured  to  the 
eyes. 

'  What  are  Moore's  politics  ? '  inquired  Shirley. 

1  Those  of  a  tradesman,'  returned  the  Eector  ;  '  narrow, 
selfish,  and  unpatriotic.  The  man  is  eternally  writing  and 
speaking  against  the  continuance  of  the  war  :  I  have  no 
patience  with  him.' 

'  The  war  hurts  his  trade.  I  remember  he  remarked  that 
only  yesterday.  But  what  other  objection  have  you  to  him  ? ' 

'  That  is  enough.' 

'He  looks  the  gentleman,  in  my  sense  of  the  term,' 
pursued  Shirley,  '  and  it  pleases  me  to  think  he  is  such.' 

Caroline  rent  the  Tyrian  petals  of  the  one  brilliant  flower 
in  her  bouquet,  and  answered  in  distinct  tones — '  Decidedly 
he  is.'  Shirley  hearing  this  courageous  affirmation,  flashed 
an  arch,  searching  glance  at  the  speaker  from  her  deep, 
expressive  eyes. 

'  You  are  his  friend,  at  any  rate,'  she  said ;  '  you  defend 
him  in  his  absence.' 

'  I  am  both  his  friend  and  his  relative,'  was  the  prompt 
reply.  '  Robert  Moore  is  my  cousin.' 

'  Oh,  then,  you  can  tell  me  all  about  him.  Just  give  me 
a  sketch  of  his  character.' 

Insuperable  embarrassment  seized  Caroline  when  this 
demand  was  made  :  she  could  not,  and  did  not  attempt  to 
comply  with  it.  Her  silence  was  immediately  covered  by 
Mrs.  Pryor,  who  proceeded  to  address  sundry  questions  to 


FIELDHEAD  209 

Mr.  Helstone  regarding  a  family  or  two  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, with  whose  connections  in  the  south  she  said  she  was 
acquainted.  Shirley  soon  withdrew  her  gaze  from  Miss 
Helstone's  face.  She  did  not  renew  her  interrogations,  but 
returning  to  her  flowers,  proceeded  to  choose  a  nosegay  for 
the  Rector.  She  presented  it  to  him  as  he  took  leave, 
and  received  the  homage  of  a  salute  on  the  hand  in  return. 

'  Be  sure  you  wear  it  for  my  sake,'  said  she. 

1  Next  my  heart,  of  course,'  responded  Helstone.  '  Mrs. 
Pry  or,  take  care  of  this  future  magistrate,  this  churchwarden 
in  perspective,  this  captain  of  yeomanry,  this  young  squire 
of  Briarfield,  in  a  word  :  don't  let  him  exert  himself  too 
much  :  don't  let  him  break  his  neck  in  hunting  :  especially, 
let  him  mind  how  he  rides  down  that  dangerous  hill  near  the 
Hollow.' 

'  I  like  a  descent,'  said  Shirley — '  I  like  to  clear  it  rapidly  ; 
and  especially  I  like  that  romantic  Hollow,  with  all  my 
heart.' 

'  Romantic — with  a  mill  in  it  ?  ' 

'  Romantic  with  a  mill  in  it.  The  old  mill  and  the  white 
cottage  are  each  admirable  in  its  way.' 

'  And  the  counting-house,  Mr.  Keeldar  ? ' 

1  The  counting-house  is  better  than  my  bloom-coloured 
drawing-room  :  I  adore  the  counting-house. 

'  And  the  trade  ?  The  cloth — the  greasy  wool — the 
polluting  dyeing-vats  ? ' 

'  The  trade  is  to  be  thoroughly  respected.' 

'  And  the  tradesman  is  a  hero  ?     Good  ! ' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so  :  I  thought  the  tradesman 
looked  heroic. 

Mischief,  spirit,  and  glee  sparkled  all  over  her  face  as  she 
thus  bandied  words  with  the  old  Cossack,  who  almost  equally 
enjoyed  the  tilt. 

'  Captain  Keeldar,  you  have  no  mercantile  blood  in  your 
veins  :  why  are  you  so  fond  of  trade  ? ' 

'  Because  I  am  a  mill-owner,  of  course.  Half  my  income 
comes  from  the  works  in  that  Hollow.' 


210  SHIRLEY 

'  Don't  enter  into  partnership,  that's  all.' 

'  You've  put  it  into  my  head !  you've  put  it  into  my 
head  ! '  she  exclaimed,  with  a  joyous  laugh.  '  It  will  never 
get  out :  thank  you.'  And  waving  her  hand,  white  as  a  lily 
and  fine  as  a  fairy's,  she  vanished  within  the  porch,  while 
the  Hector  and  his  niece  passed  out  through  the  arched 
gateway. 


CHAPTEB  XII 

SHIELEY   AND   CAROLINE 

OHIRLEY  showed  she  had  been  sincere  in  saying  she  should 
be  glad  of  Caroline's  society,  by  frequently  seeking  it :  and, 
indeed,  if  she  had  not  sought  it,  she  would  not  have  had  it ; 
for  Miss  Helstone  was  slow  to  make  fresh  acquaintance. 
She  was  always  held  back  by  the  idea  that  people  could  not 
want  her, — that  she  could  not  amuse  them ;  and  a  brilliant, 
happy,  youthful  creature,  like  the  heiress  of  Fieldhead, 
seemed  to  her  too  completely  independent  of  society  so 
uninteresting  as  hers,  ever  to  find  it  really  welcome. 

Shirley  might  be  brilliant,  and  probably  happy  likewise, 
but  no  one  is  independent  of  genial  society  :  and  though  in 
about  a  month  she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  most  of 
the  families  round,  and  was  on  quite  free  and  easy  terms 
with  all  the  Misses  Sykes,  and  all  the  Misses  Pearson,  and 
the  two  superlative  Misses  Wynne  of  Walden  Hall ;  yet,  it 
appeared,  she  found  none  amongst  them  very  genial :  she 
fraternized  with  none  of  them,  to  use  her  own  words.  If  she 
had  had  the  bliss  to  be  really  Shirley  Keeldar,  Esq.,  Lord  of 
the  Manor  of  Briarfield,  there  was  not  a  single  fair  one  in 
this  and  the  two  neighbouring  parishes,  whom  she  would 
have  felt  disposed  to  request  to  become  Mrs.  Keeldar,  lady  of 
the  manor.  This  declaration  she  made  to  Mrs.  Pry  or,  who 
received  it  very  quietly,  as  she  did  most  of  her  pupil's  off- 
hand speeches,  responding, — '  My  dear,  do  not  allow  that 
habit  of  alluding  to  yourself  as  a  gentleman  to  be  con- 
firmed :  it  is  a  strange  one.  Those  who  do  not  know  you, 
hearing  you  speak  thus,  would  think  you  affected  masculine 
manners,' 


212  SHIELEY 

Shirley  never  laughed  at  her  former  governess  :  even  the 
little  formalities  and  harmless  peculiarities  of  that  lady  were 
respectable  in  her  eyes  :  had  it  been  otherwise,  she  would 
have  proved  herself  a  weak  character  at  once  :  for  it  is  only 
the  weak  who  make  a  butt  of  quiet  worth ;  therefore  she 
took  her  remonstrance  in  silence.  She  stood  quietly  near 
the  window,  looking  at  the  grand  cedar  on  her  lawn,  watch- 
ing a  bird  on  one  of  its  lower  boughs.  Presently  she  began 
to  chirrup  to  the  bird  :  soon  her  chirrup  grew  clearer  ;  ere- 
long she  was  whistling ;  the  whistle  struck  into  a  tune,  and 
very  sweetly  and  deftly  it  was  executed. 

'  My  dear ! '  expostulated  Mrs.  Pryor. 

'  Was  I  whistling  ? '  said  Shirley ; '  I  forgot.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  ma'am.  I  had  resolved  to  take  care  not  to  whistle 
before  you.' 

'  But,  Miss  Keeldar,  where  did  you  learn  to  whistle  ? 
You  must  have  got  the  habit  since  you  came  down  into 
Yorkshire.  I  never  knew  you  guilty  of  it  before.' 

'  Oh !  I  learned  to  whistle  a  long  while  ago.' 

'  Who  taught  you  ? ' 

'  No  one :  I  took  it  up  by  listening,  and  I  had  laid  it 
down  again  ;  but  lately,  yesterday  evening,  as  I  was  coming 
up  our  lane,  I  heard  a  gentleman  whistling  that  very  tune 
in  the  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  and  that  reminded 
me.' 

1  What  gentleman  was  it  ?  ' 

'  We  have  only  one  gentleman  in  this  region,  ma'am,  and 
that  is  Mr.  Moore ;  at  least  he  is  the  only  gentleman  who  is 
not  grey-haired  :  my  two  venerable  favourites,  Mr.  Helstone 
and  Mr.  Yorke,  it  is  true,  are  fine  old  beaux  ;  infinitely  better 
than  any  of  the  stupid  young  ones.' 

Mrs.  Pryor  was  silent. 

'  You  do  not  like  Mr.  Helstone,  ma'am  ? ' 

'  My  dear,  Mr.  Helstone's  office  secures  him  from 
criticism.' 

'  You  generally  contrive  to  leave  the  room  when  he  is 
announced.' 


OAKWKLL    HALL    (FKOXI1)    (FlKLDUK 


SHIBLEY  AND  CAROLINE  213 

'  Do  you  walk  out  this  morning,  my  dear  ? ' 

1  Yes,  I  shall  go  to  the  Eectory,  and  seek  and  find 
Caroline  Helstone,  and  make  her  take  some  exercise :  she 
shall  have  a  breezy  walk  over  Nunnely  Common.' 

'  If  you  go  in  that  direction,  my  dear,  have  the  goodness 
to  remind  Miss  Helstone  to  wrap  up  well,  as  there  is  a  fresh 
wind,  and  she  appears  to  me  to  require  care.' 

'  You  shall  be  minutely  obeyed,  Mrs.  Pryor :  meantime, 
will  you  not  accompany  us  yourself  ? ' 

'  No,  my  love ;  I  should  be  a  restraint  upon  you  :  I 
am  stout,  and  cannot  walk  so  quickly  as  you  would  wish 
to  do.' 

Shirley  easily  persuaded  Caroline  to  go  with  her :  and 
when  they  were  fairly  out  on  the  quiet  road,  traversing  the 
extensive  and  solitary  sweep  of  Nunnely  Common,  she 
as  easily  drew  her  into  conversation.  The  first  feelings  of 
diffidence  overcome,  Caroline  soon  felt  glad  to  talk  with 
Miss  Keeldar.  The  very  first  interchange  of  slight  observa- 
tions sufficed  to  give  each  an  idea  of  what  the  other  was. 
Shirley  said  she  liked  the  green  sweep  of  the  common  turf, 
and,  better  still,  the  heath  on  its  ridges,  for  the  heath 
reminded  her  of  moors :  she  had  seen  moors  when  she 
was  travelling  on  the  borders  near  Scotland.  She  remembered 
particularly  a  district  traversed  one  long  afternoon,  on  a 
sultry  but  sunless  day  in  summer :  they  journeyed  from 
noon  till  sunset,  over  what  seemed  a  boundless  waste  of  deep 
heath,  and  nothing  had  they  seen  but  wild  sheep ;  nothing 
heard  but  the  cries  of  wild  birds. 

'  I  know  how  the  heath  would  look  on  such  a  day,'  said 
Caroline ;  '  purple  black :  a  deeper  shade  of  the  sky-tint,  and 
that  would  be  livid.' 

1  Yes — quite  livid,  with  brassy  edges  to  the  clouds,  and 
here  and  there  a  white  gleam,  more  ghastly  than  the  lurid 
tinge,  which,  as  you  looked  at  it,  you  momentarily  expected 
would  kindle  into  blinding  lightning.' 
1  Did  it  thunder  ?  ' 
'  It  muttered  distant  peals,  but  the  storai  did  not  break 


214  SHIRLEY 

till  evening,  after  we  had  reached  our  inn  :  that  inn  being  an 
isolated  house  at  the  foot  of  a  range  of  mountains.' 

'Did  you  watch  the  clouds  come  down  over  the 
mountains  ? ' 

'  I  did :  I  stood  at  the  window  an  hour  watching  them. 
The  hills  seemed  rolled  in  a  sullen  mist,  and  when  the  rain 
fell  in  whitening  sheets,  suddenly  they  were  blotted  from 
the  prospect :  they  were  washed  from  the  world.' 

'  I  have  seen  such  storms  in  hilly  districts  in  York- 
shire ;  and  at  their  riotous  climax,  while  the  sky  was 
all  cataract,  the  earth  all  flood,  I  have  remembered  the 
Deluge.' 

'  It  is  singularly  reviving  after  such  hurricanes  to  feel 
calm  return,  and  from  the  opening  clouds  to  receive  a 
consolatory  gleam,  softly  testifying  that  the  sun  is  not 
quenched.' 

1  Miss  Keeldar,  just  stand  still  now,  and  look  down  at 
Nunnely  dale  and  wood.' 

They  both  halted  on  the  green  brow  of  the  Common  : 
they  looked  down  on  the  deep  valley  robed  in  May  raiment ; 
on  varied  meads,  some  pearled  with  daisies,  and  some 
golden  with  king-cups :  to-day  all  this  young  verdure 
smiled  clear  in  sunlight ;  transparent  emerald  and  amber 
gleams  played  over  it.  On  Nunnwood — the  sole  remnant  of 
antique  British  forest  in  a  region  whose  lowlands  were  once 
all  sylvan  chase,  as  its  highlands  were  breast-deep  heather — 
slept  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  ;  the  distant  hills  were  dappled, 
the  horizon  was  shaded  and  tinted  like  mother-of-pearl ; 
silvery  blues,  soft  purples,  evanescent  greens  and  rose- 
shades,  all  melting  into  fleeces  of  white  cloud,  pure  as  azury 
snow,  allured  the  eye  as  with  a  remote  glimpse  of  heaven's 
foundations.  The  air  blowing  on  the  brow  was  fresh,  and 
sweet,  and  bracing. 

'  Our  England  is  a  bonnie  island,'  said  Shirley,  '  and 
Yorkshire  is  one  of  her  bonniest  nooks.' 

'  You  are  a  Yorl<  shire  girl  too  ?  ' 
I  am — Yorkshire  in  blooJ  and  birth.     Five  generations 


SHIRLEY  AND   CAROLINE  215 

of  my  race  sleep  under  the  aisles  of  Briarfield  Church :  I 
drew  my  first  breath  in  the  old  black  hall  behind  us.' 

Hereupon  Caroline  presented  her  hand,  which  was 
accordingly  taken  and  shaken. 

'  We  are  compatriots,'  said  she. 

'Yes,'  agreed  Shirley,  with  a  grave  nod.  'And  that/ 
asked  Miss  Keeldar,  pointing  to  the  forest — '  that  is  Nunn- 
wood? ' 

'  It  is.' 
Were  you  ever  there  ? ' 

'  Many  a  time.' 

'  In  the  heart  of  it  ? ' 

1  Yes.' 

1  What  is  it  like  ? ' 

1  It  is  like  an  encampment  of  forest  sons  of  Anak.  The 
trees  are  huge  and  old.  When  you  stand  at  their  roots,  the 
summits  seem  in  another  region  :  the  trunks  remain  still 
and  firm  as  pillars,  while  the  boughs  sway  to  every  breeze. 
In  the  deepest  calm  their  leaves  are  never  quite  hushed,  and 
in  high  wind  a  flood  rushes — a  sea  thunders  above  you.' 

'  Was  it  not  one  of  Robin  Hood's  haunts  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  and  there  are  mementos  of  him  still  existing.  To 
penetrate  into  Nunnwood,  Miss  Keeldar,  is  to  go  far  back 
into  the  dim  days  of  eld.  Can  you  see  a  break  in  the  forest, 
about  the  centre  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  distinctly.' 

'  That  break  is  a  dell ;  a  deep,  hollow  cup,  lined  with 
turf  as  green  and  short  as  the  sod  of  this  Common :  the 
very  oldest  of  the  trees,  gnarled  mighty  oaks,  crowd 
about  the  brink  of  this  dell :  in  the  bottom  lie  the  ruins  of  a 
nunnery.' 

'  We  will  go — you  and  I  alone,  Caroline — to  that  wood, 
early  some  fine  summer  morning,  and  spend  a  long  day 
there.  We  can  take  pencils  and  sketch-books,  and  any 
interesting  reading-book  we  like ;  and  of  course  we  shall 
take  something  to  eat.  I  have  two  little  baskets,  in  which 
Mrs,  Gill,  my  housekeeper,  might  pack  our  provisions,  and 


216  SHIRLEY 

we  could  each  carry  our  own.  It  would  not  tire  you  too 
much  to  walk  so  far  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no ;  especially  if  we  rested  the  whole  day  in  the 
wood,  and  I  know  all  the  pleasantest  spots  :  I  know  where 
we  could  get  nuts  in  nutting  time;  I  know  where  wild 
strawberries  abound ;  I  know  certain  lonely,  quite  untrodden 
glades,  carpeted  with  strange  mosses,  some  yellow  as  if 
gilded,  some  a  sober  grey,  some  gem-green.  I  know  groups 
of  trees  that  ravish  the  eye  \vdth  their  perfect,  picture-like 
effects :  rude  oak,  delicate  birch,  glossy  beech,  clustered  in 
contrast;  and  ash  trees  stately  as  Saul,  standing  isolated, 
and  superannuated  wood-giants  clad  in  bright  shrouds  of  ivy. 
Miss  Keeldar,  I  could  guide  you.' 

'  You  would  be  dull  with  me  alone  T 

4 1  should  not.  I  think  we  should  suit :  and  what  third 
person  is  there  whose  presence  would  not  spoil  our 
pleasure  ? ' 

4  Indeed,  I  know  of  none  about  our  own  ages — no  lady 
at  least,  and  as  to  gentlemen ' 

4  An  excursion  becomes  quite  a  different  thing  when 
there  are  gentlemen  of  the  party,'  interrupted  Caroline. 

4 1  agree  with  you — quite  a  different  thing  to  what  we 
were  proposing.' 

4  We  were  going  simply  to  see  the  old  trees,  the  old  ruins  J 
to  pass  a  day  in  old  times,  surrounded  by  olden  silence,  and 
above  all  by  quietude.' 

'  You  are  right ;  and  the  presence  of  gentlemen  dispels 
the  last  charm,  I  think.  If  they  are  of  the  wrong  sort, 
like  your  Malones,  and  your  young  Sykes,  and  Wynnes, 
irritation  takes  the  place  of  serenity.  If  they  are  of  the 
right  sort,  there  is  still  a  change — I  can  hardly  tell  what 
change,  one  easy  to  feel,  difficult  to  describe.' 

'  We  forget  Nature,  imprimis.' 

4  And  then  Nature  forgets  us  ;  covers  her  vast  calm  brow 
with  a  dim  veil,  conceals  her  face,  and  withdraws  the 
peaceful  joy  with  which,  if  we  had  been  content  to  worship 
her  only,  she  would  have  filled  our  hearts.' 


SHIBLEY  AND  CAROLINE  217 

'  What  does  she  give  us  instead  ? ' 

1  More  elation  and  more  anxiety :  an  excitement  that  steals 
the  hours  away  fast,  and  a  trouble  that  ruffles  their  course.' 

'  Our  power  of  being  happy  lies  a  good  deal  in  ourselves, 
I  believe,'  remarked  Caroline  sagely.  '  I  have  gone  to 
Nunnwood  with  a  large  party,  all  the  curates  and  some 
other  gentry  of  these  parts,  together  with  sundry  ladies ; 
and  I  found  the  affair  insufferably  tedious  and  absurd :  and 
I  have  gone  quite  alone,  or  accompanied  but  by  Fanny,  who 
sat  in  the  woodman's  hut  and  sewed,  or  talked  to  the 
goodwife,  while  I  roamed  about  and  made  sketches,  or  read  ; 
and  I  have  enjoyed  much  happiness  of  a  quiet  kind  all  day 
long.  But  that  was  when  I  was  young — two  years  ago.' 

'  Did  you  ever  go  with  your  cousin,  Eobert  Moore  ?  ' 

1  Yes ;  once.' 

'  What  sort  of  a  companion  is  he  on  these  occasions  ? ' 

1  A  cousin,  you  know,  is  different  to  a  stranger.' 

'  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  cousins,  if  they  are  stupid,  are 
still  more  insupportable  than  strangers,  because  you  cannot 
so  easily  keep  them  at  a  distance.  But  your  cousin  is  not 
stupid  ? ' 

•  No ;  but ' 

•  Well  ? ' 

'  If  the  company  of  fools  irritates,  as  you  say,  the  society 
of  clever  men  leaves  its  own  peculiar  pain  also.  Where  the 
goodness  or  talent  of  your  friend  is  beyond  and  above  all 
doubt,  your  own  worthiness  to  be  his  associate  often  becomes 
a  matter  of  question,' 

'  Oh  !  there  I  cannot  follow  you  :  that  crotchet  is  not  one 
I  should  choose  to  entertain  for  an  instant.  I  consider 
myself  not  unworthy  to  be  the  associate  of  the  best  of  them 
—of  gentlemen,  I  mean  :  though  that  is  saying  a  great  deal. 
Where  they  are  good,  they  are  very  good,  I  believe.  Your 
uncle,  by-the-by,  is  not  a  bad  specimen  of  the  elderly 
gentleman :  I  am  always  glad  to  see  his  brown,  keen, 
sensible  old  face,  either  in  my  own  house  or  any  other.  Are 
you  fond  of  him  ?  Is  he  kind  to  you  ?  Now  speak  the  truth.' 


218  SHIRLEY 

'  He  has  brought  me  up  from  childhood,  I  doubt  not, 
precisely  as  he  would  have  brought  up  his  own  daughter,  if 
he  had  had  one ;  and  that  is  kindness  ;  but  I  am  not  fond  of 
him :  I  would  rather  be  out  of  his  presence  than  in  it.' 

'  Strange !  when  he  has  the  art  of  making  himself  so 
agreeable.' 

'  Yes,  in  company ;  but  he  is  stern  and  silent  at  home. 
As  he  puts  away  his  cane  and  shovel-hat  in  the  Rectory  hall, 
so  he  locks  his  liveliness  in  his  book-case  and  study-desk  : 
the  knitted  brow  and  brief  word  for  the  fire-side ;  the  smile, 
the  jest,  the  witty  sally,  for  society.' 

'  Is  he  tyrannical  ? ' 

'  Not  in  the  least :  he  is  neither  tyrannical  nor  hypo- 
critical :  he  is  simply  a  man  who  is  rather  liberal  than  good- 
natured,  rather  brilliant  than  genial,  rather  scrupulously 
equitable  than  truly  just, — if  you  can  understand  such 
superfine  distinctions  ? ' 

'  Oh !  yes  :  good -nature  implies  indulgence,  which  he 
has  not ;  geniality,  warmth  of  heart,  which  he  does  not 
own  ;  and  genuine  justice  is  the  offspring  of  sympathy  and 
considerateness,  of  which,  I  can  well  conceive,  my  bronzed 
old  friend  is  quite  innocent.' 

'  I  often  wonder,  Shirley,  whether  most  men  resemble 
my  uncle  in  their  domestic  relations  ;  whether  it  is  necessary 
to  be  new  and  unfamiliar  to  them,  in  order  to  seem  agree- 
able or  estimable  in  their  eyes  ;  and  whether  it  is  impossible 
to  their  natures  to  retain  a  constant  interest  and  affection 
for  those  they  see  every  day.' 

'  I  don't  know  :  I  can't  clear  up  your  doubts.  I  ponder 
over  similar  ones  myself  sometimes.  But,  to  tell  you  a 
secret,  if  I  were  convinced  that  they  are  necessarily  and 
universally  different  from  us — fickle,  soon  petrifying,  un- 
sympathizing — I  would  never  marry.  I  should  not  like  to 
find  out  that  what  I  loved  did  not  love  me,  that  it  was  weary 
of  me,  and  that  whatever  effort  I  might  make  to  please  would 
hereafter  be  worse  than  useless,  since  it  was  inevitably  in 
its  nature  to  change  and  become  indifferent.  That  discovery 


SHIRLEY  AND  CAROLINE  219 

once  made,  what  should  I  long  for  ?  To  go  away — to 
remove  from  a  presence  where  my  society  gave  no 
pleasure.' 

4  But  you  could  not,  if  you  were  married.' 

'  No,  I  could  not— there  it  is.  I  could  never  be  my  own 
mistress  more.  A  terrible  thought ! — it  suffocates  me ! 
Nothing  irks  me  like  the  idea  of  being  a  burden  and  a  bore, 
— an  inevitable  burden, — a  ceaseless  bore !  Now,  when  I 
feel  my  company  superfluous  I  can  comfortably  fold  my 
independence  round  me  like  a  mantle,  and  drop  my  pride 
like  a  veil,  and  withdraw  to  solitude.  If  married,  that  could 
not  be.' 

'  I  wonder  we  don't  all  make  up  our  minds  to  remain 
single,'  said  Caroline :  '  we  should  if  we  listened  to  the 
wisdom  of  experience.  My  uncle  always  speaks  of  marriage 
as  a  burden ;  and  I  believe  whenever  he  hears  of  a  man 
being  married,  he  invariably  regards  him  as  a  fool,  or,  at  any 
rate,  as  doing  a  foolish  thing.' 

4  But,  Caroline,  men  are  not  all  like  your  uncle  :  surely 
not — I  hope  not.' 

She  paused  and  mused. 

4 1  suppose  we  each  find  an  exception  in  the  one  we  love, 
till  we  are  married,'  suggested  Caroline. 

'  I  suppose  so  :  and  this  exception  we  believe  to  be  of 
sterling  materials ;  we  fancy  it  like  ourselves  ;  we  imagine  a 
sense  of  harmony.  We  think  his  voice  gives  the  softest, 
truest  promise  of  a  heart  that  will  never  harden  against  us  : 
we  read  in  his  eyes  that  faithful  feeling — affection.  I  don't 
think  we  should  trust  to  what  they  call  passion  at  all, 
Caroline.  I  believe  it  is  a  mere  fire  of  dry  sticks,  blazing 
up  and  vanishing :  but  we  watch  him,  and  see  him  kind  to 
animals,  to  little  children,  to  poor  people.  He  is  kind  to  us 
likewise — good — considerate  :  he  does  not  flatter  women,  but 
he  is  patient  with  them,  and  he  seems  to  be  easy  in  their 
presence,  and  to  find  their  company  genial.  He  likes  them 
not  only  for  vain  and  selfish  reasons,  but  as  we.  like  him — 
because  we  like  him  Then  we  observe  that  he  is  just — that 


220  SHIRLEY 

he  always  speaks  the  truth— that  he  is  conscientious.  We 
feel  joy  and  peace  when  he  comes  into  a  room  ;  we  feel  sad- 
ness and  trouble  when  he  leaves  it.  We  know  that  this 
man  has  been  a  kind  son,  that  he  is  a  kind  brother  :  will 
any  one  dare  to  tell  me  that  he  will  not  be  a  kind 
husband  ? ' 

'  My  uncle  would  affirm  it  unhesitatingly.  "  He  will  be 
sick  of  you  in  a  month,"  he  would  say." 

'  Mrs.  Pryor  would  seriously  intimate  the  same.' 

'  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Miss  Mann  would  darkly  suggest 
ditto.' 

'If  they  are  true  oracles,  it  is  good  never  to  fall  in 
love.' 

'  Very  good,  if  you  can  avoid  it.' 

1 1  choose  to  doubt  their  truth.' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  proves  you  are  already  caught.' 

1  Not  I :  but  if  I  were,  do  you  know  what  soothsayers  I 
would  consult  ? ' 

1  Let  me  hear.' 

'  Neither  man  nor  woman,  elderly  nor  young  :  the  little 
Irish  beggar  that  comes  barefoot  to  my  door ;  the  mouse  that 
steals  out  of  the  cranny  in  the  wainscot ;  the  bird  that  in 
frost  and  snow  pecks  at  my  window  for  a  crumb ;  the  dog 
that  licks  my  hand  and  sits  beside  my  knee.' 

'  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  who  was  kind  to  such 
things  ? ' 

'  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  whom  such  things  seemed 
instinctively  to  follow,  like,  rely  on  ?  ' 

'  We  have  a  black  cat  and  an  old  dog  at  the  Eectory.  I 
know  somebody  to  whose  knee  that  black  cat  loves  to  climb ; 
against  whose  shoulder  and  cheek  it  likes  to  purr.  The  old 
dog  always  comes  out  of  his  kennel  and  wags  his  tail,  and 
whines  affectionately  when  somebody  passes.' 

'  And  what  does  that  somebody  do  ?  ' 

'  He  quietly  strokes  the  cat,  and  lets  her  sit  while  he 
conveniently  can,  and  when  lie  must  disturb  her  by  rising, 
he  puts  her  softly  down,  and  never  flings  her  from  him 


SHIBLEY  AND  CAROLINE  221 

roughly;  he  always  whistles  to  the  dog  and  gives  him  a 
caress.' 

1  Does  he  ?    It  is  not  Bobert  ? ' 

1  But  it  is  Eoberfc.' 

'  Handsome  fellow  !  '  said  Shirley,  with  enthusiasm  :  her 
eyes  sparkled. 

1  Is  he  not  handsome  ?  Has  he  not  fine  eyes  and  well-cut 
features,  and  a  clear,  princely  forehead? ' 

'  He  has  all  that,  Caroline.  Bless  him !  He  is  both 
graceful  and  good.' 

'  I  was  sure  you  would  see  that  he  was  :  when  I  first 
looked  at  your  face  I  knew  you  would.' 

'  I  was  well  inclined  to  him  before  I  saw  him.  I  liked 
him  when  I  did  see  him  :  I  admire  him  now.  There  is 
charm  in  beauty  for  itself,  Caroline ;  when  it  is  blent  with 
goodness,  there  is  a  powerful  charm.' 

1  When  mind  is  added,  Shirley  ? ' 

'  Who  can  resist  it  ?  ' 

'  Eemember  my  uncle,  Mesdames  Pryor,  Yorke,  and 
Mann.' 

'  Eemember  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  of  Egypt !  He  is 
a  noble  being.  I  tell  you  when  they  are  good,  they  are  the 
lords  of  the  creation, — they  are  the  sons  of  God.  Moulded 
in  their  Maker's  image,  the  minutest  spark  of  His  spirit  lifts 
them  almost  above  mortality.  Indisputably,  a  great,  good, 
handsome  man  is  the  first  of  created  things.' 

I  Above  us  ? ' 

I 1  would  scorn  to  contend  for  empire  with  him, — I  would 
scorn  it.     Shall  my  left  hand  dispute  for  precedence  with 
my  right? — shall  my  heart  quarrel  with  my  pulse?— shall 
my  veins  be  jealous  of  the  blood  which  fills  them  ? ' 

'  Men  and  women,  husbands  and  wives  quarrel  horribly, 
Shirley.' 

'  Poor  things  ! — poor,  fallen,  degenerate  things!  God 
made  them  for  another  lot— for  other  feelings.' 

'  But  are  we  men's  equals,  or  are  we  not?  ' 

1  Nothing  ever  charms  me  more  than  when  I  meet  my 


222  SHIRLEY 

superior — one  who  makes  me  sincerely  feel  that  he  is  my 
superior.' 

'  Did  you  ever  meet  him  ? ' 

'  I  should  be  glad  to  see  him  any  day  :  the  higher  above 
me,  so  much  the  better :  it  degrades  to  stoop — it  is  glorious 
to  look  up.  What  frets  me  is,  that  when  I  try  to  esteem,  I 
am  baffled  :  when  religiously  inclined,  there  are  but  false  gods 
to  adore.  I  disdain  to  be  a  Pagan.' 

'  Miss  Keeldar,  will  you  come  in  ?  We  are  here  at  the 
Eectory  gates.' 

'  Not  to-day ;  but  to-morrow  I  shall  fetch  you  to  spend 
the  evening  with  me.  Caroline  Helstone — if  you  really  are 
what  at  present  to  me  you  seem — you  and  I  will  suit.  I 
have  never  in  my  whole  life  been  able  to  talk  to  a  young 
lady  as  I  have  talked  to  you  this  morning.  Kiss  me — and 
good-by.'  

Mrs.  Pryor  seemed  as  well  disposed  to  cultivate  Caroline's 
acquaintance  as  Shirley.  She,  who  went  nowhere  else, 
called  on  an  early  day  at  the  Bectory.  She  came  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  Eector  happened  to  be  out.  It  was 
rather  a  close  day  ;  the  heat  of  the  weather  had  flushed  her, 
and  she  seemed  fluttered,  too,  by  the  circumstance  of 
entering  a  strange  house  ;  for  it  appeared  her  habits  were 
most  retiring  and  secluded.  When  Miss  Helstone  went  to 
her  in  the  dining-room,  she  found  her  seated  on  the  sofa, 
trembling,  fanning  herself  with  her  handkerchief,  and  seem- 
ing to  contend  with  a  nervous  discomposure  that  threatened 
to  become  hysterical. 

Caroline  marvelled  somewhat  at  this  unusual  want  of 
self-command  in  a  lady  of  her  years,  and  also  at  the  lack  of 
real  strength  in  one  who  appeared  almost  robust :  for  Mrs. 
Pryor  hastened  to  allege  the  fatigue  of  her  walk,  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  &c.,  as  reasons  for  her  temporary  indisposition  ;  and 
still  as,  with  more  hurry  than  coherence,  she  ag;iin  ;md 
again  enumerated  those  causes  of  exhaustion,  Caroline  gently 
sought  to  relieve  her  by  opening  her  shawl  and  removing  her 


SHIRLEY  AND  CAROLINE  223 

bonnet.  Attentions  of  this  sort,  Mrs.  Piyor  would  not  have 
accepted  from  evei-y  one :  in  general,  she  recoiled  from 
touch  or  close  approach,  with  a  mixture  of  emharrassment 
and  coldness  far  from  flattering  to  those  who  offered  her  aid  : 
to  Miss  Helstone's  little  light  hand,  however,  she  yielded 
tractably,  and  seemed  soothed  by  its  contact.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  ceased  to  tremble,  and  grew  quiet  and  tranquil. 

Her  usual  manner  being  resumed,  she  proceeded  to  talk 
of  ordinary  topics.  In  a  miscellaneous  company,  Mrs. 
Pryor  rarely  opened  her  lips ;  or,  if  obliged  to  speak,  she 
spoke  under  restraint,  and  consequently  not  well ;  in 
dialogue,  she  was  a  good  converser  :  her  language,  always  a 
little  formal,  was  well  chosen;  her  sentiments  were  just; 
her  information  was  varied  and  correct.  Caroline  felt  it 
pleasant  to  listen  to  her  :  more  pleasant  than  she  could  have 
anticipated. 

On  the  wall  opposite  the  sofa  where  they  sat,  hung  three 
pictures :  the  centre  one,  above  the  mantelpiece,  that  of  a 
lady ;  the  two  others,  male  portraits. 

'  That  is  a  beautiful  face,'  said  Mrs.  Pryor,  interrupting  a 
brief  pause  which  had  followed  half  an  hour's  animated 
conversation :  the  features  may  be  termed  perfect ;  no 
statuary's  chisel  could  improve  them :  it  is  a  portrait  from 
the  life,  I  presume  ? ' 

'  It  is  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Helstone.' 

'  Of  Mrs.  Matthewson  Helstone  ?    Of  your  uncle's  wife  ? ' 

'  It  is,  and  is  said  to  be  a  good  likeness  :  before  her 
marriage,  she  was  accounted  the  beauty  of  the  district.' 

'  I  should  say  she  merited  the  distinction  :  what  accuracy 
in  all  the  lineaments !  It  is,  however,  a  passive  face  :  the 
original  could  not  have  been,  what  is  generally  termed,  "  a 
woman  of  spirit."  ' 

'  I  believe  she  was  a  remarkably  still,  silent  person.' 

1  One  would  scarcely  have  expected,  my  dear,  that  your 
uncle's  choice  would  have  fallen  on  a  partner  of  that 
description.  Is  he  not  fond  of  being  amused  by  lively 
chat  ? ' 


224  SHIRLEY 

1  In  company  he  is ;  but  he  always  says  he  could  never 
do  with  a  talking  wife  :  he  must  have  quiet  at  home.  You 
go  out  to  gossip,  he  affirms ;  you  come  home  to  read  and 
reflect.' 

'Mrs.  Matthewson  lived  but  a  few  years  after  her 
marriage,  I  think  I  have  heard  ?  ' 

1  About  five  years.' 

'  Well,  my  dear,'  pursued  Mrs.  Pry  or,  rising  to  go,  '  I 
trust  it  is  understood  that  you  will  frequently  come  to 
Fieldhead :  I  hope  you  will.  You  must  feel  lonely  here, 
having  no  female  relative  in  the  house  :  you  must  necessarily 
pass  much  of  your  time  in  solitude.' 

'  I  am  inured  to  it :  I  have  grown  up  by  myself.  May  I 
arrange  your  shawl  for  you  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Pryor  submitted  to  be  assisted. 

'  Should  you  chance  to  require  help  in  your  studies,'  she 
said,  '  you  may  command  me.' 

Caroline  expressed  her  sense  of  such  kindness. 

'I  hope  to  have  frequent  conversations  with  you.  I 
should  wish  to  be  of  use  to  you.' 

Again  Miss  Helstone  returned  thanks.  She  thought 
what  a  kind  heart  was  hidden  under  her  visitor's  seeming 
chilliness.  Observing  that  Mrs.  Pryor  again  glanced  with  an 
air  of  interest  towards  the  portraits  as  she  walked  down  the 
room,  Caroline  casually  explained : — '  The  likeness  that 
hangs  near  the  window,  you  will  see,  is  my  uncle,  taken 
twenty  years  ago ;  the  other,  to  the  left  of  the  mantelpiece, 
is  his  brother  James,  my  father.' 

1  They  resemble  each  other  in  some  measure,'  said  Mrs. 
Pryor ;  '  yet  a  difference  of  character  may  be  traced  in  the 
different  mould  of  the  brow  and  mouth.' 

'  What  difference  ? '  inquired  Cai'oline,  accompanying  her 
to  the  door.  '  James  Helstcne — that  is,  my  father — is  gen- 
erally considered  the  best-looking  of  the  two :  strangers,  I 
remark,  always  exclaim,  "  What  a  handsome  man !  "  Do  you 
think  his  picture  handsome,  Mrs.  Pryor  ?  ' 

'  It  is  much  softer  or  finer  featured  than  that  of  your  uncle.' 


SHIRLEY  AND  CAKOLINE  225 

'But  where  or  what  is  the  difference  of  character  to 
which  you  alluded  ?  Tell  me :  I  wish  to  see  if  you  guess 
right.' 

'  My  dear,  your  uncle  is  a  man  of  principle  :  his  forehead 
and  his  lips  are  firm,  and  his  eye  is  steady.' 

'  Well,  and  the  other  ?  Do  not  be  afraid  of  offending  me  > 
I  always  like  the  truth.' 

'  Do  you  like  the  truth  ?  It  is  well  for  you :  adhere  to 
that  preference — never  swerve  thence.  The  other,  my  dear, 
if  he  had  been  living  now,  would  probably  have  furnished 
little  support  to  his  daughter.  It  is,  however,  a  graceful 
head— taken  in  youth,  I  should  think.  My  dear '  (turning 
abruptly),  'you  acknowledge  an  inestimable  value  in 
principle  ? ' 

'  I  am  sure  no  character  can  have  true  worth  without  it.' 

'You  feel  what  you  say?  You  have  considered  the 
subject  ? ' 

'  Often.  Circumstances  early  forced  it  upon  my 
attention.' 

'  The  lesson  was  not  lost,  then,  though  it  came  so  pre- 
maturely. I  suppose  the  soil  is  not  light  nor  stony,  otherwise 
seed  falling  in  that  season  never  would  have  borne  fruit- 
My  dear,  do  not  stand  in  the  air  of  the  door,  you  will  take 
cold  :  good  afternoon.' 

Miss  Helstone's  new  acquaintance  soon  became  of  value 
to  her  :  their  society  was  acknowledged  a  privilege.  She 
found  she  would  have  been  in  error  indeed  to  have  let  slip 
this  chance  of  relief— to  have  neglected  to  avail  herself  of 
this  happy  change  :  a  turn  was  thereby  given  to  her  thoughts  , 
a  new  channel  was  opened  for  them,  which,  diverting  a  few 
of  them  at  least  from  the  one  direction  in  which  all  had 
hitherto  tended,  abated  the  impetuosity  of  their  rush,  and 
lessened  the  force  of  their  pressure  on  one  worn-down 
point. 

Soon  she  was  content  to  spend  whole  days  at  Fieldhead, 
doing  by  turns  whatever  Shirley  or  Mrs.  Pryor  wished  her 
to  do :  and  now  one  would  claim  hor,  now  the  other 


226  SHIELD 

Nothing  could  be  less  demonstrative  than  the  friendship  of 
the  elder  lady ;  but  also  nothing  could  be  more  vigilant, 
assiduous,  untiring.  I  have  intimated  that  she  was  a 
peculiar  personage ;  and  in  nothing  was  her  peculiarity 
more  shown  than  in  the  nature  of  the  interest  she  evinced 
for  Caroline.  She  watched  all  her  movements  :  she  seemed 
as  if  she  would  have  guarded  all  her  steps :  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  be  applied  to  by  Miss  Helstone  for  advice  and 
assistance  ;  she  yielded  her  aid,  when  asked,  with  such 
quiet  yet  obvious  enjoyment,  that  Caroline  erelong  took 
delight  in  depending  on  her. 

Shirley  Keeldar's  complete  docility  with  Mrs.  Pryor  had 
at  first  surprised  Miss  Helstone,  and  not  less  the  fact  of  the 
reserved  ex-governess  being  so  much  at  home  and  at  ease  in 
the  residence  of  her  young  pupil,  where  she  filled  with  such 
quiet  independency  a  very  dependent  post ;  but  she  soon 
found  that  it  needed  but  to  know  both  ladies  to  comprehend 
fully  the  enigma.  Every  one,  it  seemed  to  her,  must  like, 
must  love,  must  prize  Mrs.  Pryor  when  they  knew  her.  No 
matter  that  she  perseveringly  wore  old-fashioned  gowns ; 
that  her  speech  was  formal,  and  her  manner  cool ;  that  she 
had  twenty  little  ways  such  as  nobody  else  had — she  was 
still  such  a  stay,  such  a  counsellor,  so  truthful,  so  kind  in  her 
way,  that,  in  Caroline's  idea,  none  once  accustomed  to  her 
presence  could  easily  afford  to  dispense  with  it. 

As  to  dependency  or  humiliation,  Caroline  did  not  feel  it 
in  her  intercourse  with  Shirley,  and  why  should  Mrs. 
Pryor  ?  The  heiress  was  rich — very  rich— compared  with 
her  new  friend :  one  possessed  a  clear  thousand  a  year — 
the  other  not  a  penny ;  and  yet  there  was  a  safe  sense  of 
equality  experienced  in  her  society,  never  known  in  that  of 
the  ordinary  Briarfield  and  Whinbury  gentry. 

The  reason  was,  Shirley's  head  ran  on  other  things  than 
money  and  position.  She  was  glad  to  be  independent  as 
to  property  :  by  fits  she  was  even  elated  at  the  notion  of 
being  lady  of  the  manor,  and  having  tenants  and  an  estate : 
she  was  especially  tickled  witn  an  agreeable  complacency 


SHIRLEY  AND  CAROLINE  227 

when  reminded  of  '  all  that  property '  down  in  the  Hollow, 
'comprising  an  excellent  cloth-mill,  dyehouse,  warehouse, 
together  with  the  messuage,  gardens  and  outbuildings,  termed 
Hollow's  cottage ; '  but  her  exultation  being  quite  undis- 
guised was  singularly  inoffensive ;  and  for  her  serious 
thoughts,  they  tended  elsewhere.  To  admire  the  great, 
reverence  the  good,  and  be  joyous  with  the  genial,  was 
very  much  the  bent  of  Shirley's  soul ;  she  mused  therefore 
on  the  means  of  following  this  bent  far  oftener  than  she 
pondered  on  her  social  superiority. 

In  Caroline,  Miss  Keeldar  had  first  taken  an  interest 
because  she  was  quiet,  retiring,  looked  delicate,  and  seemed 
as  if  she  needed  some  one  to  take  care  of  her.  Her 
predilection  increased  greatly  when  she  discovered  that  her 
own  way  of  thinking  and  talking  wras  understood  and 
responded  to  by  this  new  acquaintance.  She  had  hardly 
expected  it.  Miss  Helstone,  she  fancied,  had  too  pretty  a 
face,  manners  and  voice  too  soft,  to  be  anything  out  of  the 
common  way  in  mind  and  attainments  ;  and  she  very  much 
wondered  to  see  the  gentle  features  light  up  archly  to  the 
reveillee  of  a  dry  sally  or  two  risked  by  herself ;  and  more 
did  she  wonder  to  discover  the  self- won  knowledge  treasured, 
and  the  untaught  speculations  working  in  that  girlish,  curl- 
veiled  head.  Caroline's  instinct  of  taste,  too,  was  like  her 
own  :  such  books  as  Miss  Keeldar  had  read  with  the  most 
pleasure,  were  Miss  Helstone's  delight  also.  They  held 
many  aversions  too  in  common,  and  could  have  the  comfort 
of  laughing  together  over  works  of  false  sentimentality  and 
pompous  pretension. 

Few,  Shirley  conceived,  men  or  women  have  the  right 
taste  in  poetry :  the  right  sense  for  discriminating  between 
what  is  real  and  what  is  false.  She  had  again  and  again  heard 
very  clever  people  pronounce  this  or  that  passage,  in  this  or 
that  versifier,  altogether  admirable,  which,  when  she  read,  her 
soul  refused  to  acknowledge  as  anything  but  cant,  flourish, 
and  tinsel,  or  at  the  best,  elaborate  wordiness;  curious, 
clever,  learned  perhaps ;  haply  even  tinged  with  the 


228  SHIRLEY 

fascinating  hues  of  fancy,  but,  God  knows,  as  different  from 
real  poetry  as  the  gorgeous  and  massy  vase  of  mosaic  is 
from  the  little  cup  of  pure  metal ;  or,  to  give  the  reader  a 
choice  of  similes,  as  the  milliner's  artificial  wreath  is  from 
the  fresh-gathered  lily  of  the  field. 

Caroline,  she  found,  felt  the  value  of  the  true  ore,  and  knew 
the  deception  of  the  flashy  dross.  The  minds  of  the  two 
girls  being  toned  in  harmony,  often  chimed  very  sweetly 
together. 

One  evening  they  chanced  to  be  alone  in  the  oak-parlour. 
They  had  passed  a  long  wet  day  together  without  ennui ;  it 
was  now  on  the  edge  of  dark ;  candles  were  not  yet  brought 
in ;  both,  as  twilight  deepened,  grew  meditative  and  silent. 
A  western  wind  roared  high  round  the  hall,  driving  wild 
clouds  and  stormy  rain  up  from  the  far-remote  ocean :  all 
was  tempest  outside  the  antique  lattices,  all  deep  peace 
within.  Shirley  sat  at  the  window,  watching  the  rack  in 
heaven,  the  mist  on  earth,  listening  to  certain  notes  of  the 
gale  that  plained  like  restless  spirits — notes  which,  had  she 
not  been  so  young,  gay,  and  healthy,  would  have  swept  her 
trembling  nerves  like  some  omen,  some  anticipatory  dirge : 
in  this  her  prime  of  existence  and  bloom  of  beauty,  they  but 
subdued  vivacity  to  pensiveness.  Snatches  of  sweet  ballads 
haunted  her  ear ;  now  and  then  she  sang  a  stanza  :  her 
accents  obeyed  the  fitful  impulse  of  the  wind ;  they  swelled 
as  its  gusts  rushed  on,  and  died  as  they  wandered  away. 
Caroline,  withdrawn  to  the  farthest  and  darkest  end  of  the 
room,  her  figure  just  discernible  by  the  ruby  shine  of  the 
flameless  fire,  was  pacing  to  and  fro,  murmuring  to  herself 
fragments  of  well-remembered  poetry.  She  spoke  very  low, 
but  Shirley  heard  her  ;  and  while  singing  softly,  she  listened. 
This  was  the  strain  : — 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roar'd, 

When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlonp  from  on  board, 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 

His  floating  homo  for  ever  left. 


SHIRLEY  AND   CAROLINE  229 

Here  the  fragment  stopped ;  because  Shirley's  song,  ere- 
while  somewhat  full  and  thrilling,  had  become  delicately  faint. 

4  Go  on,'  said  she. 

'Then  you  go  on,  too.  I  was  only  repeating  "The 
Castaway." ' 

'  I  know :  if  you  can  remember  it  all,  say  it  all.' 

And  as  it  was  nearly  dark,  and,  after  all,  Miss  Keeldar 
was  no  formidable  auditor,  Caroline  went  through  it.  She 
went  through  it  as  she  should  have  gone  through  it.  The 
wild  sea,  the  drowning  mariner,  the  reluctant  ship  swept  on 
in  the  storm,  you  heard  were  realized  by  her;  and  more 
vividly  was  realized  the  heart  of  the  poet,  who  did  not  weep 
for  '  The  Castaway,'  but  who,  in  an  hour  of  tearless  anguish, 
traced  a  semblance  to  his  own  God-abandoned  misery  in  the 
fate  of  that  man-forsaken  sailor,  and  cried  from  the  depths 
where  he  struggled  : — 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatch' J  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd — each  alone  1 
But  I — beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelm'd  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

'  I  hope  William  Cowper  is  safe  and  calm  in  heaven  now,' 
said  Caroline. 

'  Do  you  pity  what  he  suffered  on  earth  ? '  asked  Miss 
Keeldar. 

'  Pity  him,  Shirley  ?  What  can  I  do  else  ?  He  was 
nearly  broken-hearted  when  he  wrote  that  poem,  and  it 
almost  breaks  one's  heart  to  read  it.  But  he  found  relief  in 
writing  it — I  know  he  did;  and  that  gift  of  poetry— the 
most  divine  bestowed  on  man — was,  I  believe,  granted 
to  allay  emotions  when  their  strength  threatens  harm.  It 
seems  to  me,  Shirley,  that  nobody  should  write  poetry  to 
exhibit  intellect  or  attainment.  Who  cares  for  that  sort  of 
poetry?  Who  cares  for  learning — who  cares  for  fine  words 
in  poetry?  And  who  does  not  care  for  feeling-  real  feeling 
— however  simply,  even  rudely  expressotl  ?  ' 


230  SHIRLEY 

'  It  seems  you  care  for  it,  at  all  events  :  and  certainly,  in 
hearing  that  poem,  one  discovers  that  Cowper  was  under  an 
impulse  strong  as  that  of  the  wind  which  drove  the  ship — an 
impulse  which,  while  it  would  not  suffer  him  to  stop  to  add 
ornament  to  a  single  stanza,  filled  him  with  force  to  achieve 
the  whole  with  consummate  perfection.  You  managed  to  recite 
it  with  a  steady  voice,  Caroline  :  I  wonder  thereat.' 

1  Cowper's  hand  did  not  tremble  in  writing  the  lines :  why 
should  my  voice  falter  in  repeating  them?  Depend  on  it, 
Shirley,  no  tear  blistered  the  manuscript  of  "  The  Castaway," 
I  hear  in  it  no  sob  of  sorrow,  only  the  cry  of  despair ;  but, 
that  cry  uttered,  I  believe  the  deadly  spasm  passed  from  his 
heart ;  that  he  wept  abundantly,  and  was  comforted.' 

Shirley  resumed  her  ballad  minstrelsy.  Stopping  short, 
she  remarked  erelong : — '  One  could  have  loved  Cowper  if  it 
were  only  for  the  sake  of  having  the  privilege  of  comforting 
him.' 

'  You  never  would  have  loved  Cowper,'  rejoined  Caroline, 
promptly  :  '  he  was  not  made  to  be  loved  by  woman.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  What  I  say.  I  know  there  is  a  kind  of  natures  in  the 
world — and  very  noble,  elevated  natures,  too— whom  love 
never  comes  near.  You  might  have  sought  Cowper  with  the 
intention  of  loving  him  ;  and  you  would  have  looked  at  him, 
pitied  him,  and  left  him :  forced  away  by  a  sense  of  the 
impossible,  the  incongruous,  as  the  crew  were  borne  from 
their  drowning  comrade  by  "  the  furious  blast."  ' 

'  You  may  be  right.     Who  told  you  this  ?  ' 

1  And  what  I  say  of  Cowper,  I  should  say  of  Rousseau. 
Was  Eousseau  ever  loved  ?  He  loved  passionately ;  but  was 
his  passion  ever  returned?  I  am  certain,  never.  And  if 
there  were  any  female  Cowpers  and  Rousseaus,  I  should 
assert  the  same  of  them.' 

'  Who  told  you  this,  I  ask  ?     Did  Moore  ? ' 

'  Why  should  anybody  have  told  me  ?  Have  I  not  an 
instinct?  Can  I  not  divine  by  analogy?  Moore  never 
talked  to  me  either  about  Cowper  or  Rousseau,  or  love. 


SHIRLEY  AND  CAROLINE  231 

The  voice  we  hear  in  solitude  told  me  all  I  know  on  these 
subjects.' 

'Do  you  like  characters  of  the  Rousseau  order,  Caro- 
line ? ' 

'  Not  at  all,  as  a  whole.  I  sympathise  intensely  with 
certain  qualities  they  possess  :  certain  divine  sparks  in  their 
nature  dazzle  my  eyes,  and  make  my  soul  glow.  Then, 
again,  I  scorn  them.  They  are  made  of  clay  and  gold. 
The  refuse  and  the  ore  make  a  mass  of  weakness  :  taken 
altogether,  I  feel  them  unnatural,  unhealthy,  repulsive.' 

'  I  dare  say  I  should  be  more  tolerant  of  a  Rousseau  than 
you  would,  Gary :  submissive  and  contemplative  yourself, 
you  like  the  stern  and  the  practical.  By-the-way,  you  must 
miss  that  Cousin  Robert  of  yours  very  much,  now  that  you 
and  he  never  meet.' 

1 1  do.' 

1  And  he  must  miss  you  ?  ' 

'  That  he  does  not.' 

'  I  cannot  imagine,'  pursued  Shirley,  who  had  lately  got 
a  habit  of  introducing  Moore's  name  into  the  conversation, 
even  when  it  seemed  to  have  no  business  there, — '  I  cannot 
imagine  but  that  he  was  fond  of  you,  since  he  took  so  much 
notice  of  you,  talked  to  you,  and  taught  you  .so  much.' 

'  He  never  was  fond  of  me  :  he  never  professed  to  lv> 
fond  of  me.  He  took  pains  to  prove  that  he  only  just, 
tolerated  me.' 

Caroline,  determined  not  to  err  on  the  flattering  side  in 
estimating  her  cousin's  regard  for  her,  always  now  habitually 
thought  of  it  and  mentioned  it  in  the  most  scanty  measure. 
She  had  her  own  reasons  for  being  less  sanguine  than  ever 
in  hopeful  views  of  the  future :  less  indulgent  to  pleasurable 
retrospections  of  the  past. 

'  Of  course,  then,'  observed  Miss  Keeldar,  '  you  only  just 
tolerated  him,  in  return  ?  ' 

'  Shirley,  men  and  women  arc  so  different  :  tlvy  are  in 
such  a  different  position.  Women  have  so  few  things  to 
think  about— men  so  many  :  you  may  have  a  friendship  for 


232  SHIRLEY 

a  man,  while  he  is  almost  indifferent  to  you.  Much  of  what 
cheers  your  life  may  be  dependent  on  him,  while  not  a 
feeling  or  interest  of  moment  in  his  eyes  may  have  reference 
to  you.  Eobert  used  to  be  in  the  habit  of  going  to  London, 
sometimes  for  a  week  or  a  fortnight  together  ;  well,  while  he 
was  away,  I  found  his  absence  a  void :  there  was  something 
wanting  ;  Briarfield  was  duller.  Of  course,  I  had  my  usual 
occupations ;  still  I  missed  him.  As  I  sat  by  myself  in  the 
evenings,  I  used  to  feel  a  strange  certainty  of  conviction  I 
cannot  describe  :  that  if  a  magician  or  a  genius  had,  at  that 
moment,  offered  me  Prince  Ali's  tube  (you  remember  it  in 
the  Arabian  Nights  ?),  and  if,  with  its  aid,  I  had  been  enabled 
to  take  a  view  of  Eobert — to  see  where  he  was,  how  occupied 
— I  should  have  learned,  in  a  startling  manner,  the  width  of 
the  chasm  which  gaped  between  such  as  he  and  such  as  I. 
I  knew  that,  however  my  thoughts  might  adhere  to  him,  his 
were  effectually  sundered  from  me.' 

'  Caroline,'  demanded  Miss  Keeldar,  abruptly,  '  don't  you 
wish  you  had  a  profession — a  trade  ?  ' 

'I  wish  it  fifty  times  a  day.  As  it  is,  I  often  wonder 
what  I  came  into  the  world  for.  I  long  to  have  something 
absorbing  and  compulsory  to  fill  my  head  and  hands,  and  to 
occupy  my  thoughts.' 

'  Can  labour  alone  make  a  human  being  happy  ?  ' 

'  No ;  but  it  can  give  varieties  of  pain,  and  prevent  us 
from  breaking  our  hearts  with  a  single  tyrant  master-torture. 
Besides,  successful  labour  has  its  recompense;  a  vacant, 
weary,  lonely,  hopeless  life  has  none.' 

But  hard  labour  and  learned  professions,  they  say,  make 
women  masculine,  coarse,  unwomanly.' 

'  And  what  does  it  signify,  whether  unmarried  and  never- 
to-be-married  women  are  unattractive  and  inelegant,  or  not  ? 
— provided  only  they  are  decent,  decorous,  and  neat,  it  is 
enough.  The  utmost  which  ought  to  be  required  of  old 
maids,  in  the  way  of  appearance,  is  that  they  should  not 
absolutely  offend  men's  eyes  as  they  pass  them  in  the 
street;  for  the  rest,  they  should  be  allowed,  without  too 


SHIRLEY  AND  CAROLINE  233 

much  scorn,  to  be  as  absorbed,  grave,  plain -looking,  and 
plain-dressed  as  they  please.' 

'  You  might  be  an  old-maid  yourself,  Caroline,  you  speak 
so  earnestly.' 

1 1  shall  be  one :  it  is  my  destiny.  I  will  never  marry  a 
Malone  or  a  Sykes — and  no  one  else  will  ever  marry  me.' 

Here  fell  a  long  pause :  Shirley  broke  it.  Again  the 
name  by  which  she  seemed  bewitched  was  almost  the  first  on 
her  lips. 

'  Lina — did  not  Moore  call  you  Lina  sometimes  ? ' 

'  Yes  :  it  is  sometimes  used  as  the  abbreviation  of  Caroline 
in  his  native  country.1 

'  Well,  Lina,  do  you  remember  my  one  day  noticing  an 
inequality  in  your  hair— a  curl  wanting  on  that  right  side — 
and  your  telling  me  that  it  was  Robert's  fault,  as  he  had 
once  cut  therefrom  a  long  lock  ?  ' 

1  Yes.' 

'  If  he  is,  and  always  was,  as  indifferent  to  you  as  you  say, 
why  did  he  steal  your  hair  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know — yes,  I  do :  it  was  my  doing,  not  his. 
Everything  of  that  sort  always  was  my  doing.  He  was 
going  from  home  to  London,  as  usual ;  and  the  night  before 
he  went,  I  had  found  in  his  sister's  workbox  a  lock  of  black 
hair — a  short,  round  curl:  Hortense  told  me  it  was  her 
brother's  and  a  keepsake.  He  was  sitting  near  the  table  ;  I 
looked  at  his  head — he  has  plenty  of  hair ;  on  the  temples 
were  many  such  round  curls.  I  thought  he  could  spare  me 
one  :  I  knew  I  should  like  to  have  it,  and  I  asked  for  it. 
He  said,  on  condition  that  he  might  have  his  choice  of  a 
tress  from  my  head :  so  he  got  one  of  my  long  locks  of 
haii',  and  I  got  one  of  his  short  ones.  I  keep  his,  but,  I 
dare  say,  he  has  lost  mine.  It  was  my  doing,  and  one  of 
those  silly  deeds  it  distresses  the  heart  and  sets  the  face  on 
fire  to  think  of:  one  of  those  small  but  sharp  recollections 
that  return,  lacerating  your  self-respect  like  tiny  penknives, 
and  forcing  from  your  lips,  as  you  sit  alone,  sudden,  insane- 
sounding  interjections.' 


234  SHIELEY 

'  Caroline ! ' 

'  I  do  think  myself  a  fool,  Shirley,  in  some  respects  :  I  do 
despise  myself.  But  I  said  I  would  not  make  you  my 
confessor ;  for  you  cannot  reciprocate  foible  for  foible :  you 
are  not  weak.  How  steadily  you  watch  me  now !  turn 
aside  your  clear,  strong,  she-eagle  eye ;  it  is  an  insult  to  fix 
it  on  me  thus.' 

'  What  a  study  of  character  you  are  !  Weak,  certainly ; 
but  not  in  the  sense  you  think. — Come  in  ! ' 

This  was  said  in  answer  to  a  tap  at  the  door.  Miss 
Keeldar  happened  to  be  near  it  at  the  moment,  Caroline  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room ;  she  saw  a  note  put  into  Shirley's 
hands,  and  heard  the  words — '  From  Mr.  Moore,  ma'am.' 

1  Bring  candles,'  said  Miss  Keeldar. 

Caroline  sat  expectant. 

'  A  communication  on  business,'  said  the  heiress ;  but 
when  candles  were  brought,  she  neither  opened  nor  read  it. 
The  Rector's  Fanny  was  presently  announced,  and  the 
Rector's  niece  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FUBTHER  COMMUNICATIONS   ON   BUSINESS 

IA>I  Shirley's  nature  prevailed  at  times  an  easy  indolence : 
there  were  periods  when  she  took  delight  in  perfect  vacancy 
of  hand  and  eye — moments  when  her  thoughts,  her  simple 
existence,  the  fact  of  the  world  being  around— and  heaven 
above  her,  seemed  to  yield  her  such  fulness  of  happiness, 
that  she  did  not  need  to  lift  a  finger  to  increase  the  joy. 
Often,  after  an  active  morning,  she  would  spend  a  sunny 
afternoon  in  lying  stirless  on  the  turf,  at  the  foot  of  some 
tree  of  friendly  umbrage :  no  society  did  she  need  but  that 
of  Caroline,  and  it  sufficed  if  she  were  within  call ;  no 
spectacle  did  she  ask  but  that  of  the  deep  blue  sky,  and  such 
cloudlets  as  sailed  afar  and  aloft  across  its  span ;  no  sound 
but  that  of  the  bee's  hum,  the  leaf's  whisper.  Her  sole  book 
in  such  hours  was  the  dim  chronicle  of  memory,  or  the  sibyl 
page  of  anticipation ;  from  her  young  eyes  fell  on  each 
volume  a  glorious  light  to  read  by ;  round  her  lips  at 
moments  played  a  smile  which  revealed  glimpses  of  the  tale 
or  prophecy :  it  was  not  sad,  not  dark.  Fate  had  been 
benign  to  the  blissful  dreamer,  and  promised  to  favour  her 
yet  again.  In  the  past  were  sweet  passages ;  in  her  future 
rosy  hopes. 

Yet  one  day  when  Caroline  drew  near  to  rouse  he", 
thinking  she  had  lain  long  enough,  behold,  as  she  looked 
down,  Shirley's  cheek  was  wet  as  if  with  dew  :  those  fine 
eyes  of  hers  shone  humid  and  brimming. 

'  Shirley,  \\hy  do  you  cry  ?  '  asked  Caroline,  involuntarily 
laying  stress  on  you. 


336- 

Miss  Keeldar  smiled,  and  turned  her  picturesque  head 
towards  the  questioner.  '  Because  it  pleases  me  mightily  to 
cry,'  she  said  ;  '  my  heart  is  both  sad  and  glad  :  but  why, 
you  good  patient  child — why  do  you  not  bear  me  company  ? 
I  only  weep  tears,  delightful  and  soon  wiped  away :  you 
might  weep  gall,  if  you  choose.' 

'  Why  should  I  weep  gall  ?  ' 

'  Mateless,  solitary  bird  ! '  was  the  only  answer. 

'  And  are  not  you,  too,  mateless,  Shirley  ? ' 

'  At  heart — no.' 

1  Oh  !  who  nestles  there,  Shirley  ?  ' 

But  Shirley  only  laughed  gaily  at  this  question,  and 
alertly  started  up. 

'  I  have  dreamed,'  she  said :  '  a  mere  day-dream ; 
certainly  bright,  probably  baseless  ! ' 


Miss  Helstone  was  by  this  time  free  enough  from 
illusions  :  she  took  a  sufficiently  grave  view  of  the  future, 
and  fancied  she  knew  pretty  well  how  her  own  destiny  and 
that  of  some  others  were  tending.  Yet  old  associations 
retained  their  influence  over  her,  and  it  was  these,  and  the 
power  of  habit,  which  still  frequently  drew  her  of  an  evening 
to  the  field-stile  and  the  old  thorn  overlooking  the  Hollow. 

One  night,  the  night  after  the  incident  of  the  note,  she 
had  been  at  her  usual  post,  watching  for  her  beacon — 
watching  vainly ;  that  evening  no  lamp  was  lit.  She 
waited  till  the  rising  of  certain  constellations  warned  her  of 
lateness,  and  signed  her  away.  In  passing  Fieldhead,  on 
her  return,  its  moonlight  beauty  attracted  her  glance,  and 
stayed  her  step  an  instant.  Tree  and  hall  rose  peaceful 
under  the  night  sky  and  clear  full  orb  ;  pearly  paleness 
gilded  the  building  ;  mellow  brown  gloom  bosomed  it  round  ; 
shadows  of  deep  green  brooded  above  its  oak-wreathed  roof. 
The  broad  pavement  in  front  shone  pale  also ;  it  gleamed  as 
if  some  spell  had  transformed  the  dark  granite  to  glistering 
Parian  :  on  the  silvery  space  slept  two  sable  shadows,  thrown 
sharply  defined  from  two  human  figures.  These  figures 


FURTHER  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  237 

when  first  seen  were  motionless  and  mute ;  presently  they 
moved  in  harmonious  step,  and  spoke  low  in  harmonious 
key.  Earnest  was  the  gaze  that  scrutinized  them  as  they 
emerged  from  behind  the  trunk  of  the  cedar.  'Is  it 
Mrs.  Pryor  and  Shirley  ? ' 

Certainly  it  is  Shirley.  Who  else  has  a  shape  so  lithe, 
and  proud,  and  graceful  ?  And  her  face,  too,  is  visible  :  her 
countenance  careless  and  pensive,  and  musing  and  mirthful, 
and  mocking  and  tender.  Not  fearing  the  dew,  she  has  not 
covered  her  head ;  her  curls  are  free  :  they  veil  her  neck  and 
caress  her  shoulder  with  their  tendril  rings.  An  ornament 
of  gold  gleams  through  the  half-closed  folds  of  the  scarf  she 
has  wrapped  across  her  bust,  and  a  large  bright  gem 
glitters  on  the  white  hand  which  confines  it.  Yes,  that  is 
Shirley. 

Her  companion  then  is,  of  course,  Mrs.  Pryor  ? 

Yes,  if  Mrs.  Pryor  owns  six  feet  of  stature,  and  if  she 
has  changed  her  decent  widow's  weeds  for  masculine  disguise. 
The  figure  walking  at  Miss  Keeldar's  side  is  a  man — a  tall, 
young,  stately  man — it  is  her  tenant,  Robert  Moore. 

The  pair  speak  softly,  their  words  are  not  distinguishable: 
to  remain  a  moment  to  gaze  is  not  to  be  an  eavesdropper ; 
and  as  the  moon  shines  so  clearly  and  their  countenances 
are  so  distinctly  apparent,  who  can  resist  the  attraction 
of  such  interest  ?  Caroline  it  seems  cannot,  for  she  lingers. 

There  was  a  time  when,  on  summer  nights,  Moore  had 
been  wont  to  walk  with  his  cousin,  as  he  was  now  walking 
with  the  heiress.  Often  had  she  gone  up  the  Hollow  with 
him  after  sunset,  to  scent  the  freshness  of  the  earth,  where 
a  growth  of  fragrant  herbage  carpeted  a  certain  narrow 
terrace,  edging  a  deep  ravine,  from  whose  rifted  gloom  was 
heard  a  sound  like  the  spirit  of  the  lonely  watercourse, 
moaning  amongst  its  wet  stones,  and  between  its  weedy 
banks,  and  under  its  dark  bower  of  alders. 

'  But  I  used  to  be  closer  to  him,'  thought  Caroline  :  '  he 
felt  no  obligation  to  treat  me  with  homage ;  T  needed  only 
kindness.  He  used  to  hold  my  hand  :  he  does  not  touch 


238  SHIRLEY 

hers.  And  yet  Shirley  is  not  proud  where  she  loves.  There 
is  no  haughtiness  in  her  aspect  now,  only  a  little  in  her  port ; 
what  is  natural  to  and  inseparable  from  her :  what  she  retains 
in  her  most  careless  as  in  her  most  guarded  moments. 
Robert  must  think,  as  I  think,  that  he  is  at  this  instant 
looking  down  on  a  fine  face  ;  and  he  must  think  it  with  a 
man's  brain,  not  with  mine.  She  has  such  generous,  yet 
soft  fire  in  her  eyes.  She  smiles — what  makes  her  smile  so 
sweet  ?  I  saw  that  Robert  felt  its  beauty,  and  he  must  have 
felt  it  with  his  man's  heart,  not  with  my  dim  woman's 
perceptions.  They  look  to  me  like  two  great  happy  spirits : 
yonder  silvered  pavement  reminds  me  of  that  white  shore 
we  believe  to  be  beyond  the  death-flood :  they  have  reached 
it,  they  walk  there  united.  And  what  am  I — standing 
here  in  shadow,  shrinking  into  concealment,  my  mind 
darker  than  my  hiding-place  ?  I  am  one  of  this  world,  no 
spirit — a  poor,  doomed  mortal,  who  asks,  in  ignorance  and 
hopelessness,  wherefore  she  was  born,  to  what  end  she  lives  ; 
whose  mind  for  ever  runs  on  the  question,  how  she  shall 
at  last  encounter,  and  by  whom  be  sustained  through 
death  ? 

'  This  is  the  worst  passage  I  have  come  to  yet :  still  I 
was  quite  prepared  for  it.  I  gave  Robert  up,  and  I  gave 
him  up  to  Shirley,  the  first  day  I  heard  she  was  come  :  the 
first  moment  I  saw  her — rich,  youthful,  and  lovely.  She 
has  him  now  :  he  is  her  lover  ;  she  is  his  darling  :  she  will 
be  far  more  his  darling  yet  when  they  are  married :  the 
more  Robert  knows  of  Shirley,  the  more  his  soul  will  cleave 
to  her.  They  will  both  be  happy,  and  I  do  not  grudge  them 
their  bliss  ;  but  I  groan  under  my  own  misery  :  some  of  my 
suffering  is  very  acute.  Truly,  I  ought  not  to  have  been 
born :  they  should  have  smothered  me  at  the  first  cry.' 

Here,  Shirley  stepping  aside  to  gather  a  dewy  flower, 
she  and  her  companion  turned  into  a  path  that  lay  nearer 
the  gate  :  some  of  their  conversation  became  audible.  Caro- 
line would  not  stay  to  listen  :  she  passed  away  noiselessly 
and  the  moonlight  kissed  tho  wall  which  her  shadow  had 


FtJRTHtiK  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  239 

dimmed.  The  reader  is  privileged  to  remain,  and  try  what 
he  can  make  of  the  discourse. 

'  I  cannot  conceive  why  Nature  did  not  give  you  a 
bulldog's  head,  for  you  have  all  a  bulldog's  tenacity,'  said 
Shirley. 

'  Not  a  flattering  idea  :  am  I  so  ignoble  ? ' 

'And  something  also  you  have  of  the  same  animal's 
silent  ways  of  going  about  its  work  :  you  give  no  warning  ; 
you  come  noiselessly  behind,  seize  fast,  and  hold  on.' 

'This  is  guess-work;  you  have  witnessed  no  such  feat 
on  my  part :  in  your  presence  I  have  been  no  bulldog.' 

'  Your  very  silence  indicates  your  race.  How  little  you 
talk  in  general,  yet  how  deeply  you  scheme !  You  are  far- 
seeing;  you  are  calculating.' 

'  I  know  the  ways  of  these  people.  I  have  gathered 
information  of  their  intentions.  My  note  last  night  informed 
you  that  Barraclough's  trial  had  ended  in  his  conviction  and 
sentence  to  transportation  :  his  associates  will  plot  ven- 
geance :  I  shall  lay  my  plans  so  as  to  counteract,  or,  at  least, 
be  prepared  for  theirs  ;  that  is  all.  Having  now  given  you  as 
clear  an  explanation  as  I  can,  am  I  to  understand  that  for 
what  I  propose  doing  I  have  your  approbation  ?  ' 

'  I  shall  stand  by  you  so  long  as  you  remain  on  the 
defensive.  Yes.' 

'  Good  !  Without  any  aid — even  opposed  or  disapproved 
by  you — I  believe  I  should  have  acted  precisely  as  I  now 
intend  to  act ;  but  in  another  spirit.  I  now  feel  satisfied. 
On  the  whole,  I  relish  the  position.' 

'  I  dare  say  you  do  ;  that  is  evident :  you  relish  the 
work  which  lies  before  you  still  better  than  you  would  relish 
the  execution  of  a  government  order  for  army-cloth.' 

'  I  certainly  feel  it  congenial.' 

'  So  would  old  Helstone.  It  is  true  there  is  a  shade,  of 
difference  in  your  motives  :  many  shades,  perhaps.  Shall  I 
speak  to  Mr.  Helstone  ?  I  will,  if  you  like.' 

'  Act  as  you  please  :  your  judgment,  Miss  Kceldar,  will 
guide  you  accurately.  I  could  rely  on  it  myself,  in  a  more 


240  SHIBLEY 

difficult  crisis ;  but  I  should  inform  you,  Mr.  Helstone  is 
somewhat  prejudiced  against  me  at  present.' 

'  I  am  aware,  I  have  heard  all  about  your  differences : 
depend  upon  it  they  will  melt  away :  he  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  of  an  alliance  under  present  circumstances.' 

'  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him  :  he  is  of  true  metal.' 

1 1  think  so  also.' 

1  An  old  blade,  and  rusted  somewhat ;  but  the  edge  and 
temper  still  excellent.' 

1  Well,  you  shall  have  him,  Mr.  Moore ;  that  is,  if  I  can 
win  him.' 

'  Whom  can  you  not  win  ?  ' 

1  Perhaps  not  the  Eector ;  but  I  will  make  the  effort.' 

1  Effort !    He  will  yield  for  a  word — a  smile.' 

1  By  no  means.  It  will  cost  me  several  cups  of  tea,  some 
toast  and  cake,  and  an  ample  measure  of  remonstrances, 
expostulations,  and  persuasions.  It  grows  rather  chill.' 

'  I  perceive  you  shiver.  Am  I  acting  wrongly  to  detain 
you  here  ?  Yet  it  is  so  calm :  I  even  feel  it  warm ;  and 
society  such  as  yours  is  a  pleasure  to  me  so  rare. — If  you 
were  wrapped  in  a  thicker  shawl — 

'  I  might  stay  longer,  and  forget  how  late  it  is,  which 
would  chagrin  Mrs.  Pryor.  We  keep  early  and  regular 
hours  at  Fieldhead,  Mr.  Moore ;  and  so,  I  am  sure,  does  your 
sister  at  the  cottage.' 

'  Yes ;  but  Hortense  and  I  have  an  understanding  the  most 
convenient  in  the  world,  that  we  shall  each  do  as  we  please." 

1  How  do  you  please  to  do  ? ' 

'  Three  nights  in  the  week  I  sleep  in  the  mill :  but  I  require 
little  rest ;  and  when  it  is  moonlight  and  mild,  I  often  haunt 
the  Hollow  till  daybreak.' 

'When  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  Mr.  Moore,  my  nurse 
used  to  tell  me  tales  of  fairies  being  seen  in  that  Hollow. 
That  was  before  my  father  built  the  mill,  when  it  was  a 
perfectly  solitary  ravine  :  you  will  be  falling  under  enchant- 
ment.' 

'  I  fear  it  is  done,'  said  iloore,  in  a  low  voice. 


FUETHEE  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  241 

'  But  there  are  worse  things  than  fairies  to  be  guarded 
against,'  pursued  Miss  Keeldar. 

'  Things  more  perilous,'  he  subjoined. 

1  Far  more  so.  For  instance,  how  would  you  like  to 
meet  Michael  Hartley,  that  mad  Calvinist  and  Jacobin 
weaver?  They  say  he  is  addicted  to  poaching,  and  often 
goes  abroad  at  night  with  his  gun." 

'  I  have  already  had  the  luck  to  meet  him.  We  held  a 
long  argument  together  one  night.  A  strange  little  incident 
it  was  :  I  liked  it.' 

'  Liked  it.?  I  admire  your  taste  !  Michael  is  not  sane. 
Where  did  you  meet  him  ?  ' 

'  In  the  deepest,  shadiest  spot  in  the  glen,  where  the 
water  runs  low,  under  brushwood.  We  sat  down  near  that 
plank  bridge.  It  was  moonlight,  but  clouded,  and  very  windy. 
We  had  a  talk.' 

'  On  politics  ?  ' 

'  And  religion.  I  think  the  moon  was  at  the  full,  and 
Michael  was  as  near  crazed  as  possible :  he  uttered  strange 
blasphemy  in  his  Antinomian  fashion.' 

'  Excuse  me,  but  I  think  you  must  have  been  nearly  as 
mad  as  he,  to  sit  listening  to  him.' 

'  There  is  a  wild  interest  in  his  ravings.  The  man  would 
be  half  a  poet,  if  he  were  not  wholly  a  maniac  ;  and  perhaps 
a  prophet,  if  he  were  not  a  profligate.  He  solemnly  informed 
me  that  hell  was  fore-ordained  my  inevitable  portion ;  that 
he  read  the  mark  of  the  beast  on  my  brow  ;  that  I  had  been 
an  outcast  from  the  beginning.  God's  vengeance,  he  said, 
was  preparing  for  me,  and  he  affirmed  that  in  a  vision  of  the 
night  he  had  beheld  the  manner  and  the  instrument  of  my 
doom.  I  wanted  to  know  further,  but  he  left  me  with  these 
words,  "  The  end  is  not  yet."  ' 

'  Have  you  ever  seen  him  since  ?  ' 

'  About  a  month  afterwards,  in  returning  from  market,  I 
encountered  him  and  Moses  Barraclough  both  in  an  advanced 
stage  of  inebriation  :  they  were  praying  in  frantic  sort  at  the 
roadside.  They  accosted  me  as  Satan,  hid  me  avaunt,  and 


242  SHIRLEY 

clamoured  to  be  delivered  from  temptation.  Again,  but  a 
few  days  ago,  Michael  took  the  trouble  of  appearing  at  the 
counting-house  door,  hatless,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,— his  coat 
and  castor  having  been  detained  at  the  public-house  in 
pledge ;  he  delivered  himself  of  the  comfortable  message 
that  he  could  wish  Mr.  Moore  to  set  his  house  in  order,  as 
his  soul  was  likely  shortly  to  be  required  of  him.' 

1  Do  you  make  light  of  these  things  ?  ' 

1  The  poor  man  had  been  drinking  for  weeks,  and  was  in 
a  state  bordering  on  delirium  tremens.' 

'  What  then  ?  He  is  the  more  likely  to  attempt  the  ful- 
filment of  his  own  prophecies.' 

'  It  would  not  do  to  permit  incidents  of  this  sort  to  affect 
one's  nerves.' 

'  Mr.  Moore,  go  home  ! ' 

'  So  soon  ?  ' 

'  Pass  straight  down  the  fields,  not  round  by  the  lane  and 
plantations.' 

I  It  is  early  yet.' 

'  It  is  late  :  for  my  part  I  am  going  in.     Will  you  promise 
me  not  to  wander  in  the  Hollow  to-night  ? ' 
'  If  you  wish  it.' 

I 1  do  wish  it.     May  I  ask  whether  you  consider  life 
valueless  ? ' 

'  By  no  means  :  on  the  contrary,  of  late  I  regard  my  life 
as  invaluable.' 

'  Of  late  ?  ' 

1  Existence  is  neither  aimless  nor  hopeless  to  me  now ; 
and  it  was  both  three  months  ago.  I  was  then  drowning, 
and  rather  wished  the  operation  over.  All  at  once  a  hand 
was  stretched  to  me, — such  a  delicate  hand,  I  scarcely  dared 
trust  it — its  strength,  however,  has  rescued  me  from  ruin.' 

'  Are  you  really  rescued  ?  ' 

1  For  the  time :  your  assistance  has  given  me  another 
chance.' 

'  Live  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Don't  offer  yourself  as  a 
target  to  Michael  Hartley,  and  good-night ! ' 


FUBTHER  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  243 

Miss  Helstone  was  under  a  promise  to  spend  the  evening 
of  the  next  day  at  Fieldhead  :  she  kept  her  promise.  Some 
gloomy  hours  had  she  spent  in  the  interval.  Most  of  the 
time  had  been  passed  shut  up  in  her  own  apartment ;  only 
issuing  from  it,  indeed,  to  join  her  uncle  at  meals,  and 
anticipating  inquiries  from  Fanny  by  telling  her  that  she 
was  busy  altering  a  dress,  and  preferred  sewing  up-stairs,  to 
avoid  interruption. 

She  did  sew :  she  plied  her  needle  continuously,  cease- 
lessly ;  but  her  brain  worked  faster  than  her  fingers.  Again, 
and  more  intensely  than  ever,  she  desired  a  fixed  occupation, 
— no  matter  how  onerous,  how  irksome.  Her  uncle  must 
be  once  more  entreated,  but  first  she  would  consult  Mrs. 
Pryor.  Her  head  laboured  to  frame  projects  as  diligently 
as  her  hands  to  plait  and  stitch  the  thin  texture  of  the 
muslin  summer  dress  spread  on  the  little  white  couch  at  the 
foot  of  which  she  sat.  Now  and  then,  while  thus  doubly 
occupied,  a  tear  would  fill  her  eyes  and  fall  on  her  busy 
hands  ;  but  this  sign  of  emotion  was  rare,  and  quickly 
effaced :  the  sharp  pang  passed,  the  dimness  cleared  from 
her  vision ;  she  would  re-thread  her  needle,  re-arrange  tuck 
and  trimming,  and  work  on. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  dressed  herself :  she  reached 
Fieldhead,  and  appeared  in  the  oak  parlour  just  as  tea  was 
brought  in.  Shirley  asked  her  why  she  came  so  late. 

4  Because  I  have  been  making  my  dress,'  said  she. 
4  These  fine  sunny  days  began  to  make  me  ashamed  of 
my  winter  merino ;  so  I  have  furbished  up  a  lighter  gar- 
ment.' 

In  which  you  look  as  I  like  to  see  you,"  said  Shirley. 
'  You  are  a  lady-like  little  person,  Caroline  :  is  she  not,  Mrs. 
Pryor  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Pryor  never  paid  compliments,  and  seldom  indulged 
in  remarks,  favourable  or  otherwise,  on  personal  appearance. 
On  the  present  occasion  she  only  swept  Caroline's  curls 
from  her  cheek  as  she  took  a  seat  near  her,  caressed  the 
oval  omliue,  and  observed, — '  You  get  somewhat  thin,  my 


244  SHIELEY 

love,  and  somewhat  pale.  Do  you  sleep  well  ?  Your  eyes 
have  a  languid  look ; '  and  she  gazed  at  her  anxiously. 

'  I  sometimes  dream  melancholy  dreams,"  answered 
Caroline ;  '  and  if  I  lie  awake  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
night,  I  am  continually  thinking  of  the  Eectory  as  a  dreary 
old  place.  You  know  it  is  very  near  the  churchyard :  the 
back  part  of  the  house  is  extremely  ancient,  and  it  is  said 
that  the  out-kitchens  there  were  once  enclosed  in  the  church- 
yard, and  that  there  are  graves  under  them.  I  rather  long  to 
leave  the  Eectory.' 

'  My  dear  !     You  are  surely  not  superstitious  ? ' 

'  No,  Mrs.  Pryor ;  but  I  think  I  grow  what  is  called 
nervous.  I  see  things  under  a  darker  aspect  than  I  used  to 
do.  I  have  fears  I  never  used  to  have — not  of  ghosts,  but 
of  omens  and  disastrous  events  ;  and  I  have  an  inexpressible 
weight  on  my  mind  which  I  would  give  the  world  to  shake 
off,  and  I  cannot  do  it.' 

'  Strange ! '  cried  Shirley.  '  I  never  feel  so.'  Mrs.  Pryor 
said  nothing. 

'  Fine  weather,  pleasant  days,  pleasant  scenes  are  power- 
less to  give  me  pleasure,'  continued  Caroline.  '  Calm  even- 
ings are  not  calm  to  me :  moonlight,  which  I  used  to  think 
mild,  now  only  looks  mournful.  Is  this  weakness  of  mind, 
Mrs.  Pryor,  or  what  is  it  ?  I  cannot  help  it :  I  often  struggle 
against  it :  I  reason  :  but  reason  and  effort  make  no  difference.' 

'  You  should  take  more  exercise,'  said  Mrs.  Pryor. 

1  Exercise !  I  exercise  sufficiently  :  I  exercise  till  I  am 
ready  to  drop.' 

1  My  dear,  you  should  go  from  home.' 

'  Mrs.  Pryor,  I  should  like  to  go  from  home,  but  not  on 
any  purposeless  excursion  or  visit.  I  wish  to  be  a  governess 
as  you  have  been.  It  would  oblige  me  greatly  if  you  wrould 
speak  to  my  uncle  on  the  subject.' 

'  Nonsense  ! '  broke  in  Shirley.  '  What  an  idea  !  Be  a 
governess !  Better  be  a  slave  at  once.  Where  is  the 
necessity  of  it  ?  Why  should  you  dream  of  such  a  painful 
step  ? ' 


'  My  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Pryor,  '  you  are  very  young  to  be  a 
governess,  and  not  sufficiently  robust :  the  duties  a  governess 
undertakes  are  often  severe.' 

'  And  I  believe  I  want  severe  duties  to  occupy  me.' 

'  Occupy  you  ! '  cried  Shirley.  '  When  are  you  idle  ?  I 
never  saw  a  more  industrious  girl  than  you  :  you  are  always 
at  work.  Come,'  she  continued, — 'come  and  sit  by  my 
side,  and  take  some  tea  to  refresh  you.  You  don't  care 
much  for  my  friendship,  then,  that  you  wish  to  leave  me  ? ' 

'  Indeed,  I  do,  Shirley  :  and  I  don't  wish  to  leave  you.  I 
shall  never  find  another  friend  so  dear.' 

At  which  words  Miss  Keeldar  put  her  hand  into  Caroline's 
with  an  impulsively  affectionate  movement,  which  was  well 
seconded  by  the  expression  of  her  face. 

1  If  you  think  so,  you  had  better  make  much  of  me,'  she 
said,  '  and  not  run  away  from  me.  I  hate  to  part  with  those 
to  whom  I  am  become  attached.  Mrs.  Pryor  there  some- 
times talks  of  leaving  me,  and  says  I  might  make  a  more 
advantageous  connection  than  herself.  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  exchanging  an  old-fashioned  mother  for  something 
modish  and  stylish.  As  for  you — why  I  began  to  flatter 
myself  we  were  thoroughly  friends ;  that  you  liked  Shirley 
almost  as  well  as  Shirley  likes  you :  and  she  does  not  stint 
her  regard.' 

'  I  do  like  Shirley  :  I  like  her  more  and  more  every  day ; 
but  that  does  not  make  me  strong  or  happy.' 

1  And  would  it  make  you  strong  or  happy  to  go  and  live 
as  a  dependent  amongst  utter  strangers  ?  It  would  not ; 
and  the  experiment  must  not  be  tried.  I  tell  you  it  would 
fail :  it  is  not  in  your  nature  to  bear  the  desolate  life  gover- 
nesses generally  lead :  you  would  fall  ill :  I  won't  hear 
of  it.' 

And  Miss  Keeldar  paused,  having  uttered  this  prohibition 
very  decidedly.  Soon  she  recommenced,  still  looking  some- 
what '  courroucee  ' : — '  Why,  it  is  my  daily  pleasure  now  to 
look  out  for  the  little  cottage  bonnet  and  the  silk  scarf 
glancing  through  the  trees  in  the  lane,  and  to  know  that  my 


246  SHIRLEY 

quiet,  shrewd,  thoughtful  companion  and  monitress  is 
coming  back  to  me :  that  I  shall  have  her  sitting  in  the  room 
to  look  at,  to  talk  to,  or  to  let  alone,  as  she  and  I  please. 
This  may  be  a  selfish  sort  of  language— I  know  it  is  ;  but  it 
is  the  language  which  naturally  rises  to  my  lips  ;  therefore  I 
utter  it.' 

1 1  would  write  to  you,  Shirley.' 

1  And  what  are  letters  ?  Only  a  sort  of  pis-aller.  Drink 
some  tea,  Caroline  :  eat  something — you  eat  nothing ;  laugh 
and  be  cheerful,  and  stay  at  home.' 

Miss  Helstone  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  She  felt 
what  difficulty  she  would  have  to  persuade  any  one  to  assist 
or  sanction  her  in  making  that  change  in  her  life  which  she 
believed  desirable.  Might  she  only  follow  her  own  judg- 
ment, she  thought  she  should  be  able  to  find,  perhaps  a 
harsh,  but  an  effectual  cure  for  her  sufferings.  But  this 
judgment,  founded  on  circumstances  she  could  fully  explain 
to  none,  least  of  all  to  Shirley,  seemed,  in  all  eyes  but  her 
own,  incomprehensible  and  fantastic,  and  was  opposed 
accordingly. 

There  really  was  no  present  pecuniary  need  for  her  to 
leave  a  comfortable  home  and  '  take  a  situation ; '  and  there 
was  every  probability  that  her  uncle  might  in  some  way 
permanently  provide  for  her.  So  her  friends  thought,  and, 
as  far  as  their  lights  enabled  them  to  see,  they  reasoned 
correctly :  but  of  Caroline's  strange  sufferings,  which  she 
desired  so  eagerly  to  overcome  or  escape,  they  had  no  idea, — 
of  her  racked  nights  and  dismal  days,  no  suspicion.  It  was 
at  once  impossible  and  hopeless  to  explain  :  to  wait  and 
endure  was  her  only  plan.  Many  that  want  food  and 
clothing  have  cheerier  lives  and  brighter  prospects  than  she 
had  ;  many,  harassed  by  poverty,  are  in  a  strait  less  afflictive. 

1  Now,  is  your  mind  quieted  ? '  inquired  Shirley.  '  Will 
you  consent  to  stay  at  home  ? ' 

'  I  shall  not  leave  it  against  the  approbation  of  my 
friends,1  was  the  reply ;  '  but  I  think  in  time  they  will  be 
obliged  to  think  as  I  do.' 


During  this  conversation  Mrs.  Pryor  looked  far  from 
easy.  Her  extreme  habitual  reserve  would  rarely  permit 
her  to  talk  freely,  or  to  interrogate  others  closely.  She 
could  think  a  multitude  of  questions  she  never  ventured  to 
put ;  give  advice  in  her  mind  which  her  tongue  never 
delivered.  Had  she  been  alone  with  Caroline,  she  might 
possibly  have  said  something  to  the  point :  Miss  Keeldar's 
presence,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  it,  sealed  her  lips.  Now, 
as  on  a  thousand  other  occasions,  inexplicable  nervous 
scruples  kept  her  back  from  interfering.  She  merely  showed 
her  concern  for  Miss  Helstone  in  an  indirect  way,  by  asking 
her  if  the  fire  made  her  too  warm,  placing  a  screen  between 
her  chair  and  the  hearth,  closing  a  window  whence  she 
imagined  a  draught  proceeded,  and  often  and  restlessly 
glancing  at  her.  Shirley  resumed, — '  Having  destroyed 
your  plan,'  she  said,  '  which  I  hope  I  have  done,  I  shall 
construct  a  new  one  of  my  own.  Every  summer  I  make  an 
excursion.  This  season  I  propose  spending  two  months 
either  at  the  Scotch  lochs  or  the  English  lakes  :  that  is,  I 
shall  go  there,  provided  you  consent  to  accompany  me :  if 
you  refuse,  I  shall  not  stir  a  foot.' 

'  You  are  very  good,  Shirley.' 

'  I  would  be  very  good  if  you  would  let  me :  I  have 
every  disposition  to  be  good.  It  is  my  misfortune  and  habit, 
I  know,  to  think  of  myself  paramount  to  anybody  else  :  but 
who  is  not  like  me  in  that  respect?  However,  when 
Captain  Keeldar  is  made  comfortable,  accommodated  with 
all  he  wants,  including  a  sensible  genial  comrade,  it  gives 
him  a  thorough  pleasure  to  devote  his  spare  efforts  to 
making  that  comrade  happy.  And  should  we  not  be  happy, 
Caroline,  in  the  Highlands?  We  will  go  to  the  Highlands. 
We  will,  if  you  can  bear  a  sea-voyage,  go  to  the  Isles, — 
the  Hebrides,  the  Shetland,  the  Orkney  Islands.  Would 
you  not  like  that  ?  I  see  you  would  :  Mrs.  Pryor,  I  call 
you  to  witness ;  her  face  is  all  sunshine  at  the  bare  mention 
of  it.' 

'  I  should  like   it  much,'  returned  Caroline  ;  to  whom, 


248  SHIRLEY 

indeed,  the  notion  of  such  a  tour  was  not  only  pleasant,  but 
gloriously  reviving.  Shirley  rubbed  her  hands. 

'  Come,  I  can  bestow  a  benefit,'  she  exclaimed.  '  I  can 
do  a  good  deed  with  my  cash.  My  thousand  a  year  is  not 
merely  a  matter  of  dirty  bank-notes  and  jaundiced  guineas 
(let  me  speak  respectfully  of  both  though,  for  I  adore  them) ; 
but,  it  may  be,  health  to  the  drooping,  strength  to  the  weak, 
consolation  to  the  sad.  I  was  determined  to  make  some- 
thing of  it  better  than  a  fine  old  house  to  live  in,  than  satin 
gowns  to  wear ;  better  than  deference  from  acquaintance, 
and  homage  from  the  poor.  Here  is  to  begin.  This  summer 
— Caroline,  Mrs.  Pryor,  and  I  go  out  into  the  North 
Atlantic,  beyond  the  Shetland — perhaps  to  the  Faroe  Isles. 
We  will  see  seals  in  Suderoe,  and,  doubtless,  mermaids  in 
Stromoe.  Caroline  is  laughing,  Mrs.  Pryor :  I  made  her 
laugh ;  I  have  done  her  good.' 

'I  shall  like  to  go,  Shirley,'  again  said  Miss  Helstone. 
1 1  long  to  hear  the  sound  of  waves — ocean-waves,  and  to 
see  them  as  I  have  imagined  them  in  dreams,  like  tossing 
banks  of  green  light,  strewed  with  vanishing  and  re-appear- 
ing wreaths  of  foam,  whiter  than  lilies.  I  shall  delight  to 
pass  the  shores  of  those  lone  rock-islets  where  the  sea- 
birds  live  and  breed  unmolested.  We  shall  be  on  the  track 
of  the  old  Scandinavians — of  the  Norsemen:  we  shall 
almost  see  the  shores  of  Norway.  This  is  a  very  vague 
delight  that  I  feel,  communicated  by  your  proposal,  but  it  is 
a  delight.' 

1  Will  you  think  of  Fitful-Head  now,  when  you  lie  awake 
at  night ;  of  gulls  shrieking  round  it,  and  waves  tumbling 
in  upon  it,  rather  than  of  the  graves  under  the  Rectory  back- 
kitchen  '? ' 

'  I  will  try  ;  and  instead  of  musing  about  remnants  of 
shrouds,  and  fragments  of  coffins,  and  human  bones  and 
mould,  I  will  fancy  seals  lying  in  the  sunshine  on  solitary 
shores,  where  neither  fisherman  nor  hunter  ever  comes  :  of 
rock-crevices  full  of  pearly  eggs,  bedded  in  sea-weed ;  of 
unscared  birds  covering  white  sands  in  happy  flocks,' 


FURTHEB  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  249 

I  And  what  will  become  of  that  inexpressible  weight  you 
said  you  had  on  your  mind  ? ' 

'  I  will  try  to  forget  it  in  speculation  on  the  sway  of  the 
whole  Great  Deep  above  a  herd  of  whales  rushing  through 
the  livid  and  liquid  thunder  down  from  the  frozen  zone  :  a 
hundred  of  them,  perhaps,  wallowing,  flashing,  rolling  in 
the  wake  of  a  patriarch  bull,  huge  enough  to  have  been 
spawned  before  the  Flood :  such  a  creature  as  poor  Smart 
had  in  his  mind  when  he  said, — 

Strong  against  tides  the  enormous  whale 
Emerges  as  he  goes.' 

'  I  hope  our  bark  will  meet  with  no  such  shoal,  or  herd, 
as  you  term  it,  Caroline  :  (I  suppose  you  fancy  the  sea- 
mammoths  pasturing  about  the  bases  of  the  "  everlasting 
hills,"  devouring  strange  provinder  in  the  vast  valleys 
through  and  above  which  sea-billows  roll).  I  should  not 
like  to  be  capsized  by  the  patriarch  bull.' 

I 1  suppose  you  expect  to  see  mermaids,  Shirley  ? ' 

1  One  of  them  at  any  rate  :  I  do  not  bargain  for  less :  and 
she  is  to  appear  in  some  such  fashion  as  this.  I  am  to  be 
walking  by  myself  on  deck,  rather  late  of  an  August  evening, 
watching  and  being  watched  by  a  full  harvest-moon  : 
something  is  to  rise  white  on  the  surface  of  the  sea,  over 
which  that  moon  mounts  silent,  and  hangs  glorious  :  the 
object  glitters  and  sinks.  It  rises  again.  I  think  I  hear  it 
cry  with  an  articulate  voice  :  I  call  you  up  from  the  cabin  : 
I  show  you  an  image,  fair  as  alabaster,  emerging  from  the 
dim  wave.  We  both  see  the  long  hair,  the  lifted  and  foam- 
white  arm,  the  oval  mirror,  brilliant  as  a  star.  It  glides 
nearer :  a  human  face  is  plainly  visible  ;  a  face  in  the  style. 
of  yours,  whose  straight,  pure  (excuse  the  word,  it  is  appro- 
priate), whose  straight,  pure  lineaments,  paleness  does  not 
disfigure.  It  looks  at  us,  but  not  with  your  eyes.  I  see  a 
preternatural  lure  in  its  wily  glance  :  it  beckons.  Were  we 
men,  we  should  spring  at  the  sign,  the  cold  billow  would  be 
dared  for  the  sake  of  the  colder  enchantress ;  being  women, 


250  SHIKLEY 

we  stand  safe,  though  not  dreadless.  She  comprehends  our 
unmoved  gaze ;  shef  eels  herself  powerless  ;  anger  crosses  her 
front ;  she  cannot  charm,  but  she  will  appal  us  :  she  rises  high, 
and  glides  all  revealed,  on  the  dark  wave-ridge.  Temptress- 
terror  !  monstrous  likeness  of  ourselves  !  Are  you  not  glad, 
Caroline,  when  at  last,  and  with  a  wild  shriek,  she  dives  ? ' 

'  But,  Shirley,  she  is  not  like  us :  we  are  neither  temp- 
tresses, nor  terrors,  nor  monsters.' 

'  Some  of  our  kind,  it  is  said,  are  all  three.  There  are 
men  who  ascribe  to  "  woman,"  in  general,  such  attributes.' 

'My  dears,'  here  interrupted  Mrs.  Pryor,  'does  it  not 
strike  you  that  your  conversation  for  the  last  ten  minutes 
has  been  rather  fanciful  ?  ' 

'  But  there  is  no  harm  in  our  fancies  :  is  there,  ma'am  ? ' 

'  We  are  aware  that  mermaids  do  not  exist :  why  speak  of 
them  as  if  they  did  ?  How  can  you  find  interest  in  speaking 
of  a  nonentity  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Shirley. 

'  My  dear,  I  think  there  is  an  arrival.  I  heard  a  step  in 
the  lane,  while  you  were  talking ;  and  is  not  that  the  garden- 
gate  which  creaks  ? ' 

Shirley  stepped  to  the  window. 

'  Yes,  there  is  some  one,'  said  she,  turning  quietly  away  ; 
and,  as  she  resumed  her  seat,  a  sensitive  flush  animated 
her  face,  while  a  trembling  ray  at  once  kindled  and  softened 
her  eye.  She  raised  her  hand  to  her  chin,  cast  her  gaze 
down,  and  seemed  to  think  as  she  waited. 

The  servant  announced  Mr.  Moore,  and  Shirley  turned 
round  when  Mr.  Moore  appeared  at  the  door.  His  figure 
seemed  very  tall  as  he  entered,  and  stood  in  contrast  with 
the  three  ladies,  none  of  whom  could  boast  a  stature  much 
beyond  the  average.  He  was  looking  well,  better  than  he 
had  been  known  to  look  for  the  past  twelve  months  :  a  sort 
of  renewed  youth  glowed  in  his  eye  and  colour,  and  an 
invigorated  hope  and  settled  purpose  sustained  his  bearing  : 
firmness  his  countenance  still  indicated,  but  not  austerity  : 
it  looked  as  cheerful  as  it  was  earnest. 


FURTHER  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS  251 

'  I  am  just  returned  from  Stilbro','  he  said  to  Miss 
Keeldar,  as  he  greeted  her ;  '  and  I  thought  I  would  call  to 
impart  to  you  the  result  of  my  mission.' 

'  You  did  right  not  to  keep  me  in  suspense,'  she  said ; 
'  and  your  visit  is  well-timed.  Sit  down :  we  have  not 
finished  tea.  Are  you  English  enough  to  relish  tea ;  or  do 
you  faithfully  adhere  to  coffee  ? ' 

Moore  accepted  tea. 

'  I  am  learning  to  be  a  naturalised  Englishman,'  said  he  ; 
'  my  foreign  habits  are  leaving  me  one  by  one.' 

And  now  he  paid  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Pryor,  and  paid 
them  well,  with  a  grave  modesty  that  became  his  age,  com- 
pared with  hers.  Then  he  looked  at  Caroline — not,  however, 
for  the  first  time — his  glance  had  fallen  upon  her  before  :  he 
bent  towards  her  as  she  sat,  gave  her  his  hand,  and  asked  her 
how  she  was.  The  light  from  the  window  did  not  fall  upon  Miss 
Helstone,  her  back  was  turned  towards  it  :  a  quiet  though 
rather  low  reply,  a  still  demeanour,  and  the  friendly  protec- 
tion of  early  twilight,  kept  out  of  view  each  traitorous 
symptom.  None  could  affirm  that  she  had  trembled  or  blushed, 
that  her  heart  had  quaked,  or  her  nerves  thrilled :  none 
could  prove  emotion  :  a  greeting  showing  less  effusion  was 
never  interchanged.  Moore  took  the  empty  chair  near  her, 
opposite  Miss  Keeldar.  He  had  placed  himself  well :  his 
neighbour,  screened  by  the  very  closeness  of  his  vicinage 
from  his  scrutiny,  and  sheltered  further  by  the  dusk  which 
deepened  eacli  moment,  soon  regained,  not  merely  seeming, 
but  real  mastery  of  the  feelings  which  had  started  into 
insurrection  at  the  first  announcement  of  his  name. 
He  addressed  his  conversation  to  Miss  Keeldar. 
'  I  went  to  the  barracks,'  he  said,  '  and  had  an  interview 
with  Colonel  Ryde  :  he  approved  my  plans,  and  promised 
the  aid  I  wanted  :  indeed,  he  offered  a  more  numerous  force 
than  I  require — half-a-dozen  will  suffice.  I  don't  intend  to 
be  swamped  by  red-coats ;  they  are  needed  for  appearance 
rather  than  anything  else  :  my  main  reliance  is  on  my  own 
civilians.' 


252  SHIRLEY 

'  And  on  their  Captain,'  intei-posed  Shirley. 

'What,  Captain  Keeldar?'  inquired  Moore,  slightly 
smiling,  and  not  lifting  his  eyes  :  the  tone  of  raillery  in  which 
he  said  this  was  very  respectful  and  suppressed. 

'  No,'  returned  Shii'ley,  answering  the  smile ;  '  Captain 
Gerard  Moore,  who  trusts  much  to  the  prowess  of  his  own 
right  arm,  I  believe." 

'  Furnished  with  his  counting-house  ruler,'  added  Moore. 
Resuming  his  usual  gravity,  he  went  on  :  '  I  received  by  this 
evening's  post  a  note  from  the  Home-Secretary  in  answer  to 
mine  :  it  appears  they  are  uneasy  at  the  state  of  matters  here 
in  the  north ;  they  especially  condemn  the  supineness  and 
pusillanimity  of  the  mill-owners  ;  they  say,  as  I  have  always 
said,  that  inaction,  under  present  circumstances,  is  criminal, 
and  that  cowardice  is  cruelty,  since  both  can  only  encourage 
disorder,  and  lead  finally  to  sanguinary  outbreaks.  There  is 
the  note  :  I  brought  it  for  your  perusal ;  and  there  is  a  batch 
of  newspapers,  containing  further  accounts  of  proceedings 
in  Nottingham,  Manchester,  and  elsewhere.' 

He  produced  letters  and  journals,  and  laid  them  before 
Miss  Keeldar.  While  she  perused  them,  he  took  his  tea 
quietly ;  but,  though  his  tongue  was  still,  his  observant 
faculties  seemed  by  no  means  off  duty.  Mrs.  Pryor,  sitting 
in  the  background,  did  not  come  within  the  range  of  his 
glance,  but  the  two  younger  ladies  had  the  full  benefit  thereof. 

Miss  Keeldar,  placed  directly  opposite,  was  seen  without 
effort :  she  was  the  object  his  eyes,  when  lifted,  naturally 
met  first ;  and,  as  what  remained  of  daylight — the  gilding  of 
the  west — was  upon  her,  her  shape  rose  in  relief  from  the 
dark  panelling  behind.  Shirley's  clear  cheek  was  tinted  yet 
with  the  colour  which  had  risen  into  it  a  few  minutes  since  : 
the  dark  lashes  of  her  eyes  looking  down  as  she  read,  the 
dusk  yet  delicate  line  of  her  eyebrows,  the  almost  sable  gloss 
of  her  curls,  made  her  heightened  complexion  look  fine  as 
the  bloom  of  a  red  wild-flower,  by  contrast.  There  was 
natural  grace  in  her  attitude,  and  there  was  artistic  effect  in 
the  ample  and  shining  foils  of  her  silk  dress-  — an  attire 


simply  fashioned,  but  almost  splendid  from  the  shifting 
brightness  of  its  dye,  warp  and  woof  being  of  tints  deep  and 
changing  as  the  hue  on  a  pheasant's  neck.  A  glancing 
bracelet  on  her  arm  produced  the  contrast  of  gold  and  ivory  : 
there  was  something  brilliant  in  the  whole  picture.  It  is  to 
be  supposed  that  Moore  thought  so,  as  his  eye  dwelt  long  on 
it,  but  he  seldom  permitted  his  feelings  or  his  opinions  to 
exhibit  themselves  in  his  face  :  his  temperament  boasted  a 
certain  amount  of  phlegm,  and  he  preferred  an  undemon- 
strative, not  ungentle,  but  serious  aspect,  to  any  other. 

He  could  not,  by  looking  straight  before  him,  see  Caroline, 
as  she  was  close  at  his  side ;  it  was  necessary,  therefore,  to 
manoeuvre  a  little  to  get  her  well  within  the  range  of  his 
observation  :  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked  down 
on  her.  In  Miss  Helstone,  neither  he  nor  any  one  else 
could  discover  brilliancy.  Sitting  in  the  shade,  without 
flowers  or  ornaments,  her  attire  the  modest  muslin  dress, 
colourless  but  for  its  narrow  stripe  of  pale  azure,  her 
complexion  unflushed,  unexcited,  the  very  bvownness  of  her 
hair  and  eyes  invisible  by  this  faint  light,  she  was,  compared 
with  the  heiress,  as  a  graceful  pencil-sketch  compared  with 
a  vivid  painting.  Since  Robert  had  seen  her  last,  a  great 
change  had  been  wrought  in  her ;  whether  he  perceived 
it,  might  not  be  ascertained :  he  said  nothing  to  that 
effect. 

'  How  is  Hortense  ?  '  asked  Caroline  softly. 

'  Very  well ;  but  she  complains  of  being  unemployed  ; 
she  misses  you.' 

1  Tell  her  that  I  miss  her,  and  that  I  write  and  read  a 
portion  of  French  every  day.' 

'  She  will  ask  if  you  sent  your  love :  she  is  always 
particular  on  that  point.  You  know  she  likes  attention.' 

1  My  best  love — my  very  best ;  and  say  to  her,  that 
whenever  she  has  time  to  write  me  a  little  note,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  from  her.' 

'  What  if  I  forget  ?  I  am  not  the  surest  messenger  of 
compliments.' 


254 

'  No,  don't  forget,  Eobert :  it  is  no  compliment — it  is  in 
good  earnest.' 

'  And  must  therefore  be  delivered  punctually  ? ' 

'  If  you  please.' 

'  Hortense  will  be  ready  to  shed  tears.  She  is  tender- 
hearted on  the  subject  of  her  pupil ;  yet  she  reproaches  you 
sometimes  for  obeying  your  uncle's  injunctions  too  literally. 
Affection,  like  love,  will  be  unjust  now  and  then.' 

And  Caroline  made  no  answer  to  this  observation  ;  for 
indeed  her  heart  was  troubled,  and  to  her  eyes  she  would 
have  raised  her  handkerchief,  if  she  had  dared.  If  she  had 
dared,  too,  she  would  have  declared  how  the  very  flowers  in 
the  garden  of  Hollow's  cottage  were  dear  to  her ;  how  the 
little  parlour  of  that  house  was  her  earthly  paradise ;  how 
she  longed  to  return  to  it,  as  much  almost  as  the  First 
Woman,  in  her  exile,  must  have  longed  to  revisit  Eden. 
Not  daring,  however,  to  say  these  things,  she  held  her  peace  : 
she  sat  quiet  at  Kobert's  side,  waiting  for  him  to  say  some- 
thing more.  It  was  long  since  this  proximity  had  been  hers 
— long  since  his  voice  had  addressed  her :  could  she,  with 
any  show  of  probability,  even  of  possibility,  have  imagined 
that  the  meeting  gave  him  pleasure,  to  her  it  would  have 
given  deep  bliss.  Yet,  even  in  doubt  that  it  pleased — in 
dread  that  it  might  annoy  him — she  received  the  boon  of  the 
meeting  as  an  imprisoned  bird  would  the  admission  of  sun- 
shine to  its  cage  :  it  was  of  no  use  arguing — contending 
against  the  sense  of  present  happiness  :  to  be  near  Robert 
was  to  be  revived. 

Miss  Keeldar  laid  down  the  papers. 

'  And  are  you  glad  or  sad  for  all  these  menacing  tidings  ? ' 
she  inquired  of  her  tenant. 

'  Not  precisely  either ;  but  I  certainly  am  instructed.  I 
see  that  our  only  plan  is  to  be  firm.  I  see  that  efficient 
preparation  and  a  resolute  attitude  are  the  best  means  of 
averting  bloodshed." 

He  then  inquired  if  she  had  observed  some  particular 
paragraph,  to  which  she  replied  in  the  negative,  and  he  rose 


to  show  it  to  her :  he  continued  the  conversation  standing 
before  her.  From  the  tenor  of  what  he  said,  it  appeared 
evident  that  they  both  apprehended  disturbances  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Briarfield,  though  in  what  form  they 
expected  them  to  break  out  was  not  specified.  Neither 
Caroline  nor  Mrs.  Pryor  asked  questions :  the  subject  did 
not  appear  to  be  regarded  as  one  ripe  for  free  discussion ; 
therefore  the  lady  and  her  tenant  were  suffered  to  keep 
details  to  themselves,  unimportuned  by  the  curiosity  of 
their  listeners. 

Miss  Keeldar,  in  speaking  to  Mr.  Moore,  took  a  tone  at 
once  animated  and  dignified,  confident! aland  self-respecting. 
When,  however,  the  candles  were  brought  in,  and  the  fire 
was  stirred  up,  and  the  fulness  of  light  thus  produced 
rendered  the  expression  of  her  countenance  legible,  you 
could  see  that  she  was  all  interest,  life,  and  earnestness  : 
there  was  nothing  coquettish  in  her  demeanour  :  whatever 
she  felt  for  Moore,  she  felt  it  seriously.  And  serious,  too, 
were  his  feelings,  and  settled  were  his  views,  apparently; 
for  he  made  no  petty  effort  to  attract,  dazzle,  or  impress. 
He  contrived,  notwithstanding,  to  command  a  little ; 
because  the  deeper  voice,  however  mildly  modulated,  the 
somewhat  harder  mind,  now  and  then,  though  involun- 
tarily and  unintentionally,  bore  down  by  some  peremptory 
phrase  or  tone  the  mellow  accents  and  susceptible,  if 
high,  nature  of  Shirley.  Miss  Keeldar  looked  happy  in 
conversing  with  him,  and  her  joy  seemed  twofold, — a  joy  of 
the  past  and  present,  of  memory  and  of  hope. 

What  I  have  just  said  are  Caroline's  ideas  of  the  pair: 
she  felt  what  has  just  been  described.  In  thus  feeling,  she 
tried  not  to  suffer ;  but  suffered  sharply,  nevertheless.  She 
suffered,  indeed,  miserably :  a  few  minutes  before,  her 
famished  heart  had  tasted  a  drop  and  crumb  of  nourishment 
that,  if  freely  given,  would  have  brought  back  abundance  of 
life  where  life  was  failing ;  but  the  generous  feast  was 
snatched  from  her,  spread  before  another,  and  she  remained 
but  a  bystander  at  the  banquet. 


256  SHIRLEY 

The  clock  struck  nine :  it  was  Caroline's  time  for  going 
home :  she  gathered  up  her  work,  put  the  embroidery,  the 
scissors,  the  thimble  into  her  bag :  she  bade  Mrs.  Pryor  a 
quiet  good-night,  receiving  from  that  lady  a  warmer  pressure 
of  the  hand  than  usual :  she  stepped  up  to  Miss  Keeldar. 

'  Good-night,  Shirley  ! ' 

Shirley  started  up.  '  What  1 — BO  soon  ?  Are  you  going 
already  ? ' 

'  It  is  past  nine.' 

'I  never  heard  the  clock.  You  will  come  again  to- 
morrow, and  you  will  be  happy  to-night,  will  you  not? 
Remember  our  plans.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Caroline  ;  '  I  have  not  forgotten.' 

Her  mind  misgave  her  that  neither  those  plans  nor  any 
other  could  permanently  restore  her  mental  tranquillity. 
She  turned  to  Robert,  who  stood  close  behind  her :  as  he 
looked  up,  the  light  of  the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece  fell 
full  on  her  face :  all  its  paleness,  all  its  change,  all  its  for- 
lorn meaning  were  clearly  revealed.  Robert  had  good  eyes, 
and  might  have  seen  it,  if  he  would  :  whether  he  did  see  it, 
nothing  indicated. 

'  Good-night !  '  she  said,  shaking  like  a  leaf,  offering  her 
thin  hand  hastily,  anxious  to  part  from  him  quickly. 

1  You  are  going  home  ?  '  he  asked,  not  touching  her  hand. 

I  Yes.' 

'  Is  Fanny  come  for  you  ?  ' 
'Yes.' 

I 1  may  as  well  accompany  you  a  step  of  the  way :  not 
up  to  the  Rectory,  though,  lest  my  old  friend,  Helstone, 
should  shoot  me  from  the  window.' 

He  laughed  and  took  his  hat.  Caroline  spoke  of 
unnecessary  trouble  :  he  told  her  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
shawl.  She  was  quickly  ready,  and  they  were  soon  both  in 
the  open  air.  Moore  drew  her  hand  under  his  arm,  just  in 
his  old  manner, — that  manner  which  she  ever  felt  to  be  so 
kind. 

'  You  may  run  on,  Fanny,'  he  said  to  the  housemaid ; 


FURTHER  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS    257 

'  we  shall  overtake  you  :  '  and  when  the  girl  had  got  a  little 
in  advance,  he  enclosed  Caroline's  hand  in  his,  and  said  he 
was  glad  to  find  she  was  a  familiar  guest  at  Fieldhead  :  he 
hoped  her  intimacy  with  Miss  Keeldar  would  continue ; 
such  society  would  be  both  pleasant  and  improving. 

Caroline  replied  that  she  liked  Shirley. 

'  And  there  is  no  doubt  the  liking  is  mutual,'  said  Moore  : 
'  if  she  professes  friendship,  be  certain  she  is  sincere :  she 
cannot  feign  ;  she  scorns  hypocrisy.  And,  Caroline,  are  we 
never  to  see  you  at  Hollow's  cottage  again  ? ' 

'I  suppose  not,  unless  my  uncle  should  change  his 
mind." 

'  Are  you  much  alone  now  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  a  good  deal.  I  have  little  pleasure  in  any  society 
but  Miss  Keeldar's.' 

'  Have  you  been  quite  well  lately  ?  ' 

'  Quite.' 

'  You  must  take  care  of  yourself.  Be  sure  not  to  neglect 
exercise.  Do  you  know  I  fancied  you  somewhat  altered  ; — 
a  little  fallen  away,  and  pale  ?  Is  your  uncle  kind  to  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,  he  is  just  as  he  always  is.' 

'  Not  too  tender,  that  is  to  say ;  not  too  protective  and 
attentive.  And  what  ails  you,  then  ? — tell  me  Lina.' 

'  Nothing,  Robert : '  but  her  voice  faltered. 

'  That  is  to  say,  nothing  that  you  will  tell  me  :  I  am  not 
to  be  taken  into  confidence.  Separation  is  then  quite  to 
estrange  us,  is  it  ?  ' 

'  I  do  not  know :  sometimes  I  almost  fear  it  is.' 

'  But  it  ought  not  to  have  that  effect.  "  Should  auld 
acquaintance  be  forgot,  and  days  o*  lang  syne  ?  " 

'  Robert,  I  don't  forget.' 

1  It  is  two  months,  I  should  think,  Caroline,  since  you 
were  at  the  cottage.' 

'  Since  I  was  within  it — yes.' 

I  Have  you  ever  passed  that  way  in  your  walk  ?  ' 

I 1  have  come  to  the  top  of  the  fields  sometimes  of  an 
evening,   and   looked  down.     Once  I  saw  Hortense  in  the 


258  SHIRLEY 

garden  watering  her  flowers,  and  I  know  at  what  time  you 
light  your  lamp  in  the  counting-house  :  I  have  waited  for  it 
to  shine  out  now  and  then  ;  and  I  have  seen  you  bend 
between  it  and  the  window :  I  knew  it  was  you — I  could 
almost  trace  the  outline  of  your  form.' 

'  I  wonder  I  never  encountered  you  :  I  occasionally  walk 
to  the  top  of  the  Hollow's  fields  after  sunset.' 

'  I  know  you  do  :  I  had  almost  spoken  to  you  one  night, 
you  passed  so  near  me.' 

'  Did  I  ?  I  passed  near  you,  and  did  not  see  you  !  Was 
I  alone  ? ' 

'  I  saw  you  twice,  and  neither  time  were  you  alone.' 

1  Who  was  my  companion  ?  Probably  no  one  but  Joe 
Scott,  or  my  own  shadow  by  moonlight.' 

'  No  ;  neither  Joe  Scott  nor  your  shadow,  Robert.  The 
first  time  you  were  with  Mr.  Yorke ;  and  the  second  time 
what  you  call  your  shadow  was  a  shape  with  a  white  fore- 
head and  dark  curls,  and  a  sparkling  necklace  round  its 
neck  ;  but  I  only  just  got  a  glimpse  of  you  and  that  fairy 
shadow  :  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  you  converse.' 

'  It  appears  you  walk  invisible.  I  noticed  a  ring  on 
your  hand  this  evening ;  can  it  be  the  ring  of  Gygcs  ? 
Henceforth,  when  sitting  in  the  counting-house  by  myself, 
perhaps  at  dead  of  night,  I  shall  permit  myself  to  imagine 
that  Caroline  may  be  leaning  over  my  shoulder  reading  with 
me  from  the  same  book,  or  sitting  at  my  side  engaged  in  her 
own  particular  task,  and  now  and  then  raising  her  unseen 
eyes  to  my  face  to  read  there  my  thoughts.' 

'  You  need  fear  no  such  infliction  :  I  do  not  come  near 
you  :  I  only  stand  afar  off,  watching  what  may  become  of  you. 

'  When  I  walk  out  along  the  hedgerows  in  the  evening 
after  the  mill  is  shut-  or  at  night,  when  I  take  the  watch  - 
man's  place — I  shall  fancy  the  flutter  of  every  little  bird 
over  its  nest,  the  rustle  of  every  leaf,  a  movement  made  by 
you  ;  tree-shadows  will  take  your  shape  ;  in  the  white  sprays 
of  hawthorn,  I  shall  imagine  glimpses  of  you.  Lina,  you 
will  haunt  me.' 


FUKTHEB  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS    259 

'  I  will  never  be  where  you  would  not  wish  me  to  be,  nor 
see  nor  hear  what  you  would  wish  unseen  and  unheard.' 

'  I  shall  see  you  in  my  very  mill  in  broad  daylight : 
indeed,  I  have  seen  you  there  once.  But  a  week  ago,  I  was 
standing  at  the  top  of  one  of  my  long  rooms,  girls  were 
working  at  the  other  end,  and  amongst  half  a  dozen  of  them, 
moving  to  and  fro,  I  seemed  to  see  a  figure  resembling  yours. 
It  was  some  effect  of  doubtful  light  or  shade,  or  of  dazzling 
sunbeam.  I  walked  up  to  this  group ;  what  I  sought  had 
glided  away  :  I  found  myself  between  two  buxom  lasses  in 
pinafores.' 

'  I  shall  not  follow  you  into  your  mill,  Robert,  unless  you 
call  me  there.' 

'  Nor  is  that  the  only  occasion  on  which  imagination  has 
played  me  a  trick.  One  night,  when  I  came  home  late  from 
market,  I  walked  into  the  cottage  parlour  thinking  to  find 
Hortense ;  but  instead  of  her,  I  thought  I  found  you. 
There  was  no  candle  in  the  room  :  my  sister  had  taken  the 
light  upstairs  with  her ;  the  window-blind  was  not  drawn, 
and  broad  moonbeams  poured  through  the  panes  ;  there  you 
were,  Lina,  at  the  casement,  shrinking  a  little  to  one  side  in 
an  attitude  not  unusual  with  you.  You  were  dressed  in 
white,  as  I  have  seen  you  dressed  at  an  evening-party.  For 
half  a  second,  your  fresh,  living  face  seemed  turned  towards 
me,  looking  at  me ;  for  half  a  second,  my  idea  was  to  go  and 
take  your  hand,  to  chide  you  for  your  long  absence,  and 
welcome  your  present  visit.  Two  steps  forward  broke  the 
spell  :  the  drapery  of  the  dress  changed  outline  ;  the  tints 
of  the  complexion  dissolved,  and  were  formless  :  positively, 
as  1  reached  the  spot,  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  sweep 
of  a  white  muslin  curtain,  and  a  balsam  plant  in  a 
flower-pot,  covered  with  a  blush  of  bloom — "  sic  transit,"  et 
cetera.' 

'  It  was   not   my   wraith,    then  ?      I   almost  thought   it 
was.' 

'  No ;  only  gauze,  crockery,  and  pink  blossom  :  a  sample 
of  earthly  illusions.' 


260  SHIBLEY 

1 1  wonder  you  have  time  for  such  illusions,  occupied  as 
your  mind  must  be.' 

'  So  do  I.  But  I  find  in  myself,  Lina,  two  natures ;  one 
for  the  world  and  business,  and  one  for  home  and  leisure. 
Gerard  Moore  is  a  hard  dog,  brought  up  to  mill  and  market : 
the  person  you  call  your  cousin  Robert  is  sometimes  a  dreamer, 
who  lives  elsewhere  than  in  Cloth-hall  and  counting-house.' 

'Your  two  natures  agree  with  you:  I  think  you  are 
looking  in  good  spirits  and  health  :  you  have  quite  lost  that 
harassed  air  which  it  often  pained  one  to  see  in  your  face  a 
few  months  ago.' 

'  Do  you  observe  that  ?  Certainly,  I  am  disentangled  of 
some  difficulties  :  I  have  got  clear  of  some  shoals,  and  have 
more  sea-room.' 

'  And,  with  a  fair  wind,  you  may  now  hope  to  make  a 
prosperous  voyage  ?  ' 

1 1  may  Jwpe  it — yes — but  hope  is  deceptive  :  there  is  no 
controlling  wind  or  wave :  gusts  and  swells  perpetually 
trouble  the  mariner's  course ;  he  dare  not  dismiss  from  his 
mind  the  expectation  of  tempest.' 

'  But  you  are  ready  for  a  breeze — you  are  a  good  seaman 
— an  able  commander  :  you  are  a  skilful  pilot,  Robert :  you 
will  weather  the  storm.' 

'  My  kinswoman  always  thinks  the  best  of  me,  but  I  will 
take  her  words  for  a  propitious  omen ;  J  will  consider  that 
in  meeting  her  to-night,  I  have  met  with  one  of  those  birds 
whose  appearance  is  to  the  sailor  the  harbinger  of  good- 
luck.' 

'  A  poor  harbinger  of  good-luck  is  she  who  can  do 
nothing — who  has  no  power.  I  feel  my  incapacity '.  it  is  of 
no  use  saying  I  have  the  will  to  serve  you,  when  I  cannot 
prove  it ;  yet  I  have  that  will.  I  wish  you  success ;  I  wish 
you  high  fortune  and  true  happiness.' 

'  When  did  you  ever  wish  me  anything  else  ?  What  is 
Fanny  waiting  for — I  told  her  to  walk  on  ?  Oh  !  we  have 
reached  the  churchyard :  then,  we  are  to  part  here,  I 
suppose  :  we  might  have  sat  a  few  minutes  in  the  church- 


FURTHER  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS    261 

porch,  if  the  girl  had  not  been  with  us.  It  is  so  fine  a  night, 
so  summer-mild  and  still,  I  have  no  particular  wish  to 
return  yet  to  the  Hollow.' 

'But  we  cannot  sit  in  the  porch  now,  Robert.' 

Caroline  said  this  because  Moore  was  turning  her  round 
towards  it. 

'  Perhaps  not,  but  tell  Fanny  to  go  in ;  say  we  are  coming : 
a  few  minutes  will  make  no  difference.' 

The  church-clock  struck  ten. 

'  My  uncle  will  be  coming  out  to  take  his  usual  sentinel 
round,  and  he  always  surveys  the  church  and  churchyard.1 

1  And  if  he  does  ?  If  it  were  not  for  Fanny,  who  knows 
we  are  here,  I  should  find  pleasure  in  dodging  and  eluding 
him.  We  could  be  under  the  east  window  when  he  is  at  the 
porch ;  as  he  came  round  to  the  north  side,  we  could  wheel 
off  to  the  south ;  we  might  at  a  pinch  hide  behind  some  of 
the  monuments :  that  tall  erection  of  the  Wynnes  would 
screen  us  completely.' 

1  Robert,  what  good  spirits  you  have !  Go — go  ! '  added 
Caroline  hastily,  '  I  hear  the  front  door ' 

'  I  don't  want  to  go  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  want  to  stay.' 

'  You  know  my  uncle  will  be  terribly  angry  :  he  forbade 
me  to  see  you  because  you  are  a  Jacobin.' 

'  A  queer  Jacobin  ! ' 

'  Go,  Robert,  he  is  coming ;  I  hear  him  cough.' 

'  Diable  1  It  is  strange — what  a  pertinacious  wish  I 
feel  to  stay ! ' 

'  You  remember  what  he  did  to  Fanny's '  began 

Caroline,  and  stopped  abruptly  short.  Sweetheart  was  the 
word  that  ought  to  have  followed,  but  she  could  not  utter  it ; 
it  seemed  calculated  to  suggest  ideas  she  had  no  intention 
to  suggest ;  ideas  delusive  and  disturbing.  Moore  was  less 
scrupulous  ;  '  Fanny's  sweetheart  ?  '  he  said  at  once.  '  He 
gave  him  a  shower-bath  under  the  pump — did  he  not?  He'd 
do  as  much  for  me,  I  daresay,  with  pleasure.  I  should  like  to 
provoke  the  old  Turk-  -not  however  against  you  :  but  he  would 
make  a  distinction  between  a  cousin  and  a  lover,  would  he  not  ? 


262  SHIRLEY 

1  Oh  !  he  would  not  think  of  you  in  that  way,  of  course 
not ;  his  quarrel  with  you  is  entirely  political ;  yet  I  should 
not  like  the  breach  to  be  widened,  and  he  is  so  testy.  Here 
he  is  at  the  garden-gate — for  your  own  sake  and  mine, 
Robert,  go ! ' 

The  beseeching  words  were  aided  by  a  beseeching 
gesture  and  a  more  beseeching  look.  Moore  covered  her 
clasped  hands  an  instant  with  his,  answered  her  upward  by 
a  downward  gaze,  said  '  Good-night ! '  and  went. 

Caroline  was  in  a  moment  at  the  kitchen-door  behind 
Fanny;  the  shadow  of  the  shovel-hat  at  that  very  instant 
fell  on  a  moonlit  tomb ;  the  Rector  emerged,  erect  as  a  cane, 
from  his  garden,  and  proceeded  in  slow  march,  his  hands 
behind  him,  down  the  cemetery.  Moore  was  almost  caught : 
he  had  to  '  dodge '  after  all,  to  coast  round  the  church,  and 
finally  to  bend  his  tall  form  behind  the  Wynnes'  ambitious 
monument.  There  he  was  forced  to  hide  full  ten  minutes, 
kneeling  with  one  knee  on  the  turf,  his  hat  off,  his  curls  bare 
to  the  dew,  his  dark  eye  shining,  and  his  lips  parted  with 
inward  laughter  at  his  position :  for  the  Rector  meantime 
stood  coolly  star-gazing,  and  taking  snuff  within  three  feet 
of  him. 

It  happened,  however,  that  Mr.  Helstone  had  no  suspicion 
whatever  on  his  mind ;  for  being  usually  but  vaguely 
informed  of  his  niece's  movements,  not  thinking  it  worth 
while  to  follow  them  closely,  he  was  not  aware  that  she  had 
been  out  at  all  that  day,  and  imagined  her  then  occupied 
with  book  or  work  in  her  chamber :  where,  indeed,  she  was 
by  this  time  ;  though  not  absorbed  in  the  tranquil  employ- 
ment he  ascribed  to  her,  but  standing  at  her  window  with 
fast-throbbing  heart,  peeping  anxiously  from  behind  the 
blind,  watching  for  her  uncle  to  re-enter  and  her  cousin  to 
escape ;  and  at  last  she  was  gratified  ;  she  heard  Mr.  Hel- 
stone come  in ;  she  saw  Robert  stride  the  tombs  and  vault 
the  wall ;  she  then  went  down  to  prayers.  When  sho 
returned  to  her  chamber,  it  was  to  meet  the  memory  of 
Robert.  Slumber's  visitation  was  long  averted:  long  she 


FtJKTHEK  COMMUNICATIONS  ON  BUSINESS    263 

sat  at  her  lattice,  long  gazed  down  on  the  old  garden  and 
older  church,  on  the  tombs  laid  out  all  gray  and  calm,  and 
clear  in  moonlight.  She  followed  the  steps  of  the  night,  on 
its  pathway  of  stars,  far  into  the  '  wee  sma'  hours  ayont  the 
twal : '  she  was  with  Moore,  in  spirit,  the  whole  time :  she 
was  at  his  side  :  she  heard  his  voice  :  she  gave  her  hand  into 
his  hand ;  it  rested  warm  in  his  fingers.  When  the  church- 
clock  struck,  when  any  other  sound  stirred,  when  a  little 
mouse  familiar  to  her  chamber,  an  intruder  for  which  she 
would  never  permit  Fanny  to  lay  a  trap,  came  rattling 
amongst  the  links  of  her  locket  chain,  her  one  ring,  and 
another  trinket  or  two,  on  the  toilette-table,  to  nibble  a  bit 
of  biscuit  laid  ready  for  it,  she  looked  up,  recalled  momen- 
tarily to  the  real.  Then  she  said  half  aloud,  as  if  deprecating 
the  accusation  of  some  unseen  and  unheard  monitor, — '  I  am 
not  cherishing  love-dreams :  I  am  only  thinking  because  I 
cannot  sleep ;  of  course,  I  know  he  will  marry  Shirley.' 

With  returning  silence,  with  the  lull  of  the  chime,  and 
the  retreat  of  her  small  untamed  and  unknown  prot£g6,  she 
still  resumed  the  dream,  nestling  to  the  vision's  side,— 
listening  to,  conversing  with  it.  It  paled  at  last :  as  dawn 
approached,  the  setting  stars  and  breaking  day  dimmed  the 
creation  of  Fancy  :  the  wakened  song  of  birds  hushed  her 
whispers.  The  tale  full  of  fire,  quick  with  interest,  borne 
away  by  the  morning  wind,  became  a  vague  murmur.  The 
shape  that,  seen  in  a  moonbeam,  lived,  had  a  pulse,  had 
movement,  wore  health's  glow  and  youth's  freshness,  turned 
cold  and  ghostly  gray,  confronted  with  the  red  of  sunrise. 
It  wasted.  She  was  left  solitary  at  last :  she  crept  to  her 
couch,  chill  and  dejected. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHIRLEY   SEEKS   TO   BE   SAVED   BY   WORKS 

'  OF  course,  I  know  he  will  marry  Shirley,'  were  her  first 

words  when   she  rose  in  the  morning.     '  And  he  ought  to 

marry  her  :  she  can  help  him,'  she  added  firmly.     '  But  I 

shall   be  forgotten  when  they  are  married,"    was  the  cruel 

succeeding   thought.     '  Oh !    I   shall   be   wholly   forgotten ! 

And  what — what  shall  I  do  when  Robert  is  taken  quite  from 

me?     Where   shall  I  turn?     My  Robert!  I   wish  I   could 

justly   call   him  mine  :  but  I  am  poverty  and   incapacity ; 

Shirley   is  wealth  and  power :  and  she  is  beauty  too,  and 

love — I  cannot  deny  it.     This  is  no  sordid  suit :  she  loves 

him — not  with  inferior  feelings  :  she  loves,  or  will  love,  as 

he  must  feel  proud  to  be  loved.     Not  a  valid  objection  can 

be  made.     Let  them  be  married  then  :  but  afterwards  I  shall 

be  nothing  to  him.     As  for  being  his  sister,  and  all  that  stuff, 

I  despise  it.     I  will  either  be  all  or  nothing  to  a  man  like 

Robert :  no   feeble   shuffling,   or   false   cant,    is   endurable. 

Once  let  that  pair  be  united,  and  I  will  certainly  leave  them. 

As  for  lingering  about,  playing  the  hypocrite,  and  pretending 

to   calm   sentiments   of  friendship,  when  my    soul  will    be 

wrung    with    other   feelings,    I    shall  not   descend  to   such 

degradation.     As  little  could  1  fill  the  place  of  their  mutual 

friend  as  that  of   their  deadly  foe  :  as  little  could  I  stand 

between  them  as  trample  over  them.     Robert  is  a  first-rate 

man  —in  my  eyes  :  I  have  loved,  do  love,  and  must  love  him. 

I  would  be  his  wife,  if  I  could  ;  as  1  cannot,  1  must  go  where 

I    shall    never  see  him.     There  is  but  one   alternative — to 

cleave  to  him  as  if  I  were  a  part  ol  him,  or  to  be  sundered 


SHIRLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WORKS   265 

from  him  wide  as  the  two  poles  of  a  sphere.     Sunder  me 
then,  Providence.     Part  us  speedily.' 

Some  such  aspirations  as  these  were  again  working  in 
her  mind  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  apparition  of  one 
of  the  personages  haunting  her  thoughts  passed  the  parlour 
window.  Miss  Keeldar  sauntered  slowly  by :  her  gait,  her 
countenance  wearing  that  mixture  of  wistfulness  and  care- 
lessness which,  when  quiescent,  was  the  wonted  cast  of  her 
look,  and  character  of  her  bearing.  When  animated,  the 
carelessness  quite  vanished,  the  wistfulness  became  blent 
with  a  genial  gaiety,  seasoning  the  laugh,  the  smile,  the 
glance,  with  a  unique  flavour  of  sentiment,  so  that  mirth 
from  her  never  resembled  '  the  crackling  of  thorns  under 
a  pot.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  not  coming  to  see  me  this  after- 
noon, as  you  promised  ? '  was  her  address  to  Caroline  as  she 
entered  the  room. 

'  I  was  not  in  the  humour,'  replied  Miss  Helstone,  very 
truly. 

Shirley  had  already  fixed  on  her  a  penetrating  eye. 
'  No,'  she  said  :  '  I  see  you  are  not  in  the  humour  for 
loving  me  :  you  are  in  one  of  your  sunless,  inclement  moods, 
when  one  feels  a  fellow-creature's  presence  is  not  welcome 
to  you.     You  have  such  moods  :  are  you  aware  of  it  ?  ' 
'  Do  you  mean  to  stay  long,  Shirley  ?  ' 
1  Yes  :  I  am  come  to  have  my  tea,  and  must  have  it  before 
I  go.     I  shall  take  the  liberty  then  of  removing  my  bonnet 
without  being  asked.' 

And  this  she  did,  and  then  stood  on  the  rug  with  her 
hands  behind  her. 

'  A  pretty  expression  you  have  in  your  countenance,'  she 
went  on,  still  gazing  keenly,  though  not  iniimcally,  rather 
indeed  pityingly  at  Caroline.  '  Wonderfully  self-supported 
you  look,  you  solitude-seeking,  wounded  deer.  Are  you 
afraid  Shirley  will  worry  you,  if  she  discovers  that  you  are 
hurt,  and  that  you  bleed  ?  ' 
'  I  never  do  fear  Shirley.' 


266  SHIRLEY 

'But  sometimes  you  dislike  her:  often  you  avoid  her. 
Shirley  can  feel  when  she  is  slighted  and  shunned.  If  you 
had  not  walked  home  in  the  company  you  did  last  night,  you 
would  have  been  a  different  girl  to-day.  What  time  did  you 
reach  the  Rectory  ? ' 

'  By  ten.' 

'  Humph  !  You  took  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  walk  a 
mile.  Was  it  you,  or  Moore,  who  lingered  so  ?  ' 

'  Shirley,  you  talk  nonsense.' 

'  He  talked  nonsense— that  I  doubt  not ;  or  he  looked  it, 
which  is  a  thousand  times  worse  :  I  see  the  reflection  of  his 
eyes  on  your  forehead  at  this  moment.  I  feel  disposed  to  call 
him  out,  if  I  could  only  get  a  trustworthy  second :  I  feel 
desperately  irritated :  I  felt  so  last  night,  and  have  felt  it  all 
day.' 

1  You  don't  ask  me  why,'  she  proceeded,  after  a  pause, 
'  you  little,  silent,  over-modest  thing ;  and  you  don't  deserve 
that  I  should  pour  out  my  secrets  into  your  lap  without  an 
invitation.  Upon  my  word,  I  could  have  found  it  in  my 
heart  to  have  dogged  Moore  yesterday  evening  with  dire 
intent :  I  have  pistols,  and  can  use  them.' 

'  Stuff,  Shirley  ?  Which  would  you  have  shot — me  or 
Robert  ? ' 

'  Neither,  perhaps — perhaps  myself — more  likely  a  bat 
or  a  tree-bough.  He  is  a  puppy — your  cousin :  a  quiet, 
serious,  sensible,  judicious,  ambitious  puppy.  I  see  him 
standing  before  me,  talking  his  half-stern,  half-gentle  talk, 
bearing  me  down  (as  I  am  very  conscious  he  does)  with  his 

fixity  of  purpose,  &c. ;  and  then 1  have  no  patience  with 

him  ! ' 

Miss  Keeldar  started  off  on  a  rapid  walk  through  the 
room,  repeating  energetically  that  she  had  no  patience  with 
men  in  general,  and  with  her  tenant  in  particular. 

'  You  are  mistaken,'  urged  Caroline,  in  some  anxiety  : 
1  Robert  is  no  puppy  or  male  flirt ;  I  can  vouch  for  that.' 

'  You  vouch  for  it !  Do  you  think  I'll  take  your  word  on 
the  subject  ?  There  is  no  one's  testimony  I  would  not  credit 


SH1BLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WORKS    267 

sooner  than  yours.  To  advance  Moore's  fortune,  you  would 
cut  off  your  right  hand.' 

1  But  not  tell  lies ;  and  if  I  speak  the  truth,  I  must  assure 
you  that  he  was  just  civil  to  me  last  night — that  was  all.' 

'  I  never  asked  what  he  was — I  can  guess :  I  saw  him 
from  the  window  take  your  hand  in  his  long  fingers,  just  as 
he  went  out  at  my  gate.' 

'  That  is  nothing.  I  am  not  a  stranger,  you  know  :  I  am 
an  old  acquaintance,  and  his  cousin.' 

'  I  feel  indignant ;  and  that  is  the  long  and  short  of  the 
matter,'  responded  Miss  Keeldar.  '  All  my  comfort,'  she 
added  presently,  '  is  broken  up  by  his  manoeuvres.  He 
keeps  intruding  between  you  and  me :  without  him  we 
should  be  good  friends  ;  but  that  six  feet  of  puppyhood 
makes  a  perpetually  recurring  eclipse  of  our  friendship. 
Again  and  again  he  crosses  and  obscures  the  disk  I  want 
always  to  see  clear  :  ever  and  anon  he  renders  me  to  you  a 
mere  bore  and  nuisance.' 

'  No,  Shirley  ;  no.' 

'  He  does.  You  did  not  want  my  society  this  afternoon, 
and  I  feel  it  hard ;  you  are  naturally  somewhat  reserved, 
but  I  am  a  social  personage,  who  cannot  live  alone.  If  we 
were  but  left  unmolested,  I  have  that  regard  for  you  that  I 
could  bear  you  in  my  presence  for  ever,  and  not  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second  do  I  ever  wish  to  be  rid  of  you.  You 
cannot  say  as  much  respecting  me.' 

'  Shirley,  I  can  say  anything  you  wish  :  Shirley,  I  like 
you.' 

'  You  will  wish  me  at  Jericho  to-morrow,  Lina.' 

'  I  shall  not.  I  am  every  day  growing  more  accustomed 
to — fonder  of  you.  You  know  I  am  too  English  to  get  up  a 
vehement  friendship  all  at  once ;  but  you  are  so  much 
better  than  common — you  are  so  different  to  everyday  young 
ladies — I  esteem  you — I  value  you  :  you  are  never  a  burden 
to  me — never.  Do  you  believe  what  I  say  ?  ' 

'  Partly,'  replied  Miss  Keeldar,  smiling  rather  incredu- 
lously ;  '  but  you  are  a  peculiar  personage  :  quiet  as  you 


268  SHIRLEY 

look,  there  is  both  a  force  and  a  depth  some wli  ere  within, 
not  easily  reached  or  appreciated :  then  you  certainly  are 
not  happy.' 

4  And  unhappy  people  are  rarely  good — is  that  what  you 
mean  ? ' 

'  Not  at  all :  I  mean  rather  that  unhappy  people  are 
often  preoccupied,  and  not  in  the  mood  for  discoursing  with 
companions  of  my  nature.  Moreover,  there  is  a  sort  of 
unhappiness  which  not  only  depresses,  but  corrodes — and 
that,  I  fear,  is  your  portion.  Will  pity  do  you  any  good, 
Lina  ?  If  it  will,  take  some  from  Shirley  :  she  offers  largely, 
and  warrants  the  article  genuine.' 

'  Shirley,  I  never  had  a  sister — you  never  had  a  sister ; 
but  it  flashes  on  me  at  this  moment  how  sisters  feel  towards 
each  other.  Affection  twined  with  their  life,  which  no  shocks 
of  feeling  can  uproot,  which  little  quarrels  only  trample  an 
instant  that  it  may  spring  more  freshly  when  the  pressure 
is  removed  ;  affection  that  no  passion  can  ultimately  outrival, 
with  which  even  love  itself  cannot  do  more  than  compete 
in  force  and  truth.  Love  hurts  us  so,  Shirley :  it  is  so 
tormenting,  so  racking,  and  it  burns  away  our  strength  with 
its  flame  ;  in  affection  is  no  pain  and  no  fire,  only  susten- 
ance and  balm.  I  am  supported  and  soothed  when  you — 
that  is,  you  only — are  near,  Shirley.  Do  you  believe  me 
now?' 

'  I  am  always  easy  of  belief  when  the  creed  pleases  me. 
We  really  are  friends  then,  Lina,  in  spite  of  the  black 
eclipse  ? ' 

'  We  really  are,'  returned  the  other,  drawing  Shirley 
towards  her,  and  making  her  sit  down,  '  chance  what 
may.' 

'  Come,  then,  we  will  talk  of  something  else  than  the 
Troubler.'  But  at  this  moment  the  Eector  came  in,  and  the 
'  something  else  '  of  which  Miss  Keeldar  was  about  to  talk 
was  not  again  alluded  to  till  the  moment  of  her  departure  ; 
she  then  delayed  a  few  minutes  in  the  passage  to  say, 
'  Caroline,  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  have  a  great  weight  on 


SHIRLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WORKS    269 

my  mind :  my  conscience  is  quite  uneasy,  as  if  I  had 
committed,  or  was  going  to  commit,  a  crime.  It  is  not  my 
private  conscience,  you  must  understand,  but  my  landed- 
proprietor  and  lord-of-the-manor  conscience.  I  have  got 
into  the  clutch  of  an  eagle  with  iron  talons.  I  have  fallen 
under  a  stern  influence,  which  I  scarcely  approve,  but  can- 
not resist.  Something  will  be  done  erelong,  I  fear,  which  it 
by  no  means  pleases  me  to  think  of.  To  ease  my  mind,  and 
to  prevent  harm  as  far  as  I  can,  I  mean  to  enter  on  a  series 
of  good  works.  Don't  be  surprised,  therefore,  if  you  see  me 
all  at  once  turn  outrageously  charitable.  I  have  no  idea 
how  to  begin,  but  you  must  give  me  some  advice :  we  will 
talk  more  on  the  subject  to-morrow ;  and  just  ask  that 
excellent  person,  Miss  Ainley,  to  step  up  to  Fieldhead :  I 
have  some  notion  of  putting  myself  under  her  tuition — won't 
she  have  a  precious  pupil  ?  Drop  a  hint  to  her,  Lina,  that, 
though  a  well-meaning,  I  am  rather  a  neglected  character, 
and  then  she  will  feel  less  scandalized  at  my  ignorance 
about  clothing  societies,  and  such  things.' 

On  the  morrow,  Caroline  found  Shirley  sitting  gravely 
at  her  desk,  with  an  account-book,  a  bundle  of  bank-notes, 
and  a  well-filled  purse  before  her.  She  was  looking  mighty 
serious,  but  a  little  puzzled.  She  said  she  had  been  '  casting 
an  eye  '  over  the  weekly  expenditure  in  housekeeping  at  the 
Hall,  trying  to  find  out  where  she  could  retrench  ;  that  she 
had  also  just  given  audience  to  Mrs.  Gill,  the  cook,  and  had 
sent  that  person  away  with  a  notion  that  her  (Shirley's) 
brain  was  certainly  crazed.  '  I  have  lectured  her  on  the  duty 
of  being  careful,'  said  she,  '  in  a  way  quite  new  to  her.  So 
eloquent  was  I  on  the  text  of  economy,  that  I  surprised 
myself ;  for,  you  see,  it  is  altogether  a  fresh  idea :  I  never 
thought,  much  less  spoke,  on  the  subject  till  lately.  But  it 
is  all  theory ;  for  when  I  came  to  the  practical  part  I  could 
retrench  nothing.  I  had  not  firmness  to  take  off  a  single 
pound  of  butter,  or  to  prosecute  to  any  clear  result  an  inquest 
into  the  destiny  of  either  dripping,  lard,  bread,  cold  meat,  or 
other  kitchen  perquisite  whatever.  I  know  we  never  get  up 


270  SHIELEY 

illuminations  at  Fieldhead,  but  I  could  not  ask  the  meaning 
of  sundry  quite  unaccountable  pounds  of  candles :  we  do 
not  wash  for  the  parish,  yet  I  viewed  in  silence  items  of 
soap  and  bleaching -powder  calculated  to  satisfy  the 
solicitude  of  the  most  anxious  inquirer  after  our  position  in 
reference  to  those  articles :  carnivorous  I  am  not,  nor  is 
Mrs.  Pryor,  nor  is  Mrs.  Gill  herself,  yet  I  only  hemmed  and 
opened  my  eyes  a  little  wide  when  I  saw  butchers'  bills 
whose  figures  seemed  to  prove  that  fact — falsehood,  I  mean. 
Caroline,  you  may  laugh  at  me,  but  you  can't  change  me. 
I  am  a  poltroon  on  certain  points — I  feel  it.  There  is  a 
base  alloy  of  moral  cowardice  in  my  composition.  I  blushed 
and  hung  my  head  before  Mrs.  Gill,  when  she  ought  to 
have  been  faltering  confessions  to  me.  I  found  it  impossible 
to  get  up  the  spirit  even  to  hint,  much  less  to  prove  to  her 
that  she  was  a  cheat.  I  have  no  calm  dignity — no  true 
courage  about  me.' 

'  Shirley,  what  fit  of  self-injustice  is  this  ?  My  uncle, 
who  is  not  given  to  speak  well  of  women,  says  there  are  not 
ten  thousand  men  in  England  as  genuinely  fearless  as  you.' 

'  I  am  fearless,  physically :  I  am  never  nervous  about 
danger.  I  was  not  startled  from  self-possession  when  Mr. 
Wynne's  great  red  bull  rose  with  a  bellow  before  my  face  as 
I  was  crossing  the  cowslip-lea  alone,  stooped  his  begrimed, 
sullen  head,  and  made  a  run  at  me ;  but  I  was  afraid  of 
seeing  Mrs.  Gill  brought  to  shame  and  confusion  of  face. 
You  have  twice— ten  times  my  strength  of  mind  on  certain 
subjects,  Caroline  :  you,  whom  no  persuasions  can  induce  to 
pass  a  bull,  however  quiet  he  looks,  would  have  firmly 
shown  my  housekeeper  she  had  done  wrong ;  then  you 
would  have  gently  and  wisely  admonished  her  ;  and  at  last, 
I  daresay,  provided  she  had  seemed  penitent,  you  would 
have  very  sweetly  forgiven  her.  Of  this  conduct  I  am 
incapable.  However,  in  spite  of  exaggerated  imposition,  I 
still  find  we  live  within  our  means  :  I  have  money  in  hand, 
and  I  really  must  do  some  good  with  it.  The  Briarfield 
poor  are  badly  off:  they  must  be  helped.  What  ought  I  to 


SHIBLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WOBKS    271 

do,  think  you,  Lina  ?  Had  I  not  better  distribute  the  cash 
at  once  ? ' 

'  No,  indeed,  Shirley  :  you  will  not  manage  properly.  I 
have  often  noticed  that  your  only  notion  of  charity  is  to  give 
shillings  and  half-crowns  in  a  careless,  free-handed  sort  of 
way,  which  is  liable  to  continual  abuse.  You  must  have  a 
prime  minister,  or  you  will  get  yourself  into  a  series  of 
scrapes.  You  suggested  Miss  Ainley  yourself :  to  Miss 
Ainley  I  will  apply ;  and,  meantime,  promise  to  keep  quiet, 
and  not  begin  throwing  away  your  money.  What  a  great 
deal  you  have,  Shirley  1 — you  must  feel  very  rich  with  all 
that.' 

'  Yes ;  I  feel  of  consequence.  It  is  not  an  immense  sum, 
but  I  feel  responsible  for  its  disposal ;  and  really  this 
responsibility  weighs  on  my  mind  more  heavily  than  I 
could  have  expected.  They  say  that  there  are  some  families 
almost  starving  to  death  in  Briarfield :  some  of  my  own 
cottagers  are  in  wretched  circumstances  :  I  must  and  will 
help  them.' 

'  Some  people  say  we  shouldn't  give  alms  to  the  poor, 
Shirley.' 

1  They  are  great  fools  for  their  pains.  For  those  who  are 
not  hungry,  it  is  easy  to  palaver  about  the  degradation  of 
charity,  and  so  on ;  but  they  forget  the  brevity  of  life,  as 
well  as  its  bitterness.  We  have  none  of  us  long  to  live  :  let 
us  help  each  other  through  seasons  of  want  and  woe,  as  well 
as  we  can,  without  heeding  in  the  least  the  scruples  of  vain 
philosophy.' 

'  But  you  do  help  others,  Shirley  :  you  give  a  great  deal 
as  it  is.' 

'  Not  enough :  I  must  give  more,  or,  I  tell  you,  my 
brother's  blood  will  some  day  be  crying  to  Heaven  against 
me.  For,  after  all,  if  political  incendiaries  come  here  to 
kindle  conflagration  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  my  property 
is  attacked,  I  shall  defend  it  like  a  tigress — I  know  I  shall. 
Let  me  listen  to  Mercy  as  long  as  she  is  near  me  :  her  voice 
once  drowned  by  the  shout  of  ruffian  defiance,  and  I  shall  be 


272  SHIBLEY 

full  of  impulses  to  resist  and  quell.  If  once  the  poor  gather 
and  rise  in  the  form  of  the  mob,  I  shall  turn  against  them 
as  an  aristocrat:  if  they  bully  me,  I  must  defy;  if  they 
attack,  I  must  resist, — and  I  will.' 

'  You  talk  like  Kobert.' 

'  I  feel  like  Robert,  only  more  fierily.  Let  them  meddle 
with  Robert,  or  Robert's  mill,  or  Robert's  interests,  and  I 
shall  hate  them.  At  present  I  am  no  patrician,  nor  do  I 
regard  the  poor  around  me  as  plebeians ;  but  if  once  they 
violently  wrong  me  or  mine,  and  then  presume  to  dictate  to 
us,  I  shall  quite  forget  pity  for  their  wretchedness  and 
respect  for  their  poverty,  in  scorn  of  their  ignorance  and 
wrath  at  their  insolence.' 

'  Shirley — how  your  eyes  flash  ! ' 

'  Because  my  soul  burns.  Would  you,  any  more  than 
me,  let  Robert  be  borne  down  by  numbers  ?  ' 

'  If  I  had  your  power  to  aid  Robert,  I  would  use  it  as  you 
mean  to  use  it.  If  I  could  be  such  a  friend  to  him  as  you 
can  be,  I  would  stand  by  him  as  you  mean  to  stand  by  him 
till  death.' 

1  And  now,  Lina,  though  your  eyes  don't  flash,  they  glow. 
You  drop  your  lids  ;  but  I  saw  a  kindled  spark.  However, 
it  is  not  yet  come  to  fighting.  What  I  want  to  do  is  to 
prevent  mischief.  I  cannot  forget,  either  day  or  night,  that 
these  embittered  feelings  of  the  poor  against  the  rich  have 
been  generated  in  suffering :  they  would  neither  hate  nor 
envy  us  if  they  did  not  deem  us  so  much  happier  than  them- 
selves. To  allay  this  suffering,  and  thereby  lessen  this  hate, 
let  me,  out  of  rny  abundance,  give  abundantly ;  and  that 
the  donation  may  go  farther,  let  it  be  made  wisely.  To  that 
intent,  we  must  introduce  some  clear,  calm,  practical  sense 
into  our  councils  :  so  go,  and  fetch  Miss  Ainley.' 

Without  another  word  Caroline  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
departed.  It  may,  perhaps,  appear  strange  that  neither  she 
nor  Shirley  thought  of  consulting  Mrs.  Pryor  on  their 
scheme;  but  they  were  wise  in  abstaining.  To  have  consulted 
her — and  this  they  knew  by  instinct — would  only  have  been 


SHIRLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WORKS    273 

to  involve  her  in  painful  embarrassment.  She  was  far  better 
informed,  better  read,  a  deeper  thinker  than  Miss  Ainley,  but 
of  administrative  energy,  of  executive  activity,  she  had  none. 
She  would  subscribe  her  own  modest  mite  to  a  charitable 
object  willingly, — secret  almsgiving  suited  her  ;  but  in  public 
plans,  on  a  large  scale,  she  could  take  no  part :  as  to  origin- 
ating them,  that  was  out  of  the  question.  This  Shirley 
knew,  and  therefore  she  did  not  trouble  Mrs.  Pryor  by 
unavailing  conferences,  which  could  only  remind  her  of  her 
own  deficiencies,  and  do  no  good. 

It  was  a  bright  day  for  Miss  Ainley,  when  she  was 
summoned  to  Fieldhead  to  deliberate  on  projects  so  con- 
genial to  her;  when  she  was  seated  with  all  honour  and 
deference  at  a  table  with  paper,  pen,  ink,  and — what  was 
best  of  all — cash  before  her,  and  requested  to  draw  up  a 
regular  plan  for  administering  relief  to  the  destitute  poor  of 
Briarfield.  She,  who  knew  them  all,  had  studied  their 
wants,  had  again  and  again  felt  in  what  way  they  might 
best  be  succoured,  could  the  means  of  succour  only  be  found, 
was  fully  competent  to  the  undertaking,  and  a  meek  exultation 
gladdened  her  kind  heart  as  she  felt  herself  able  to  answer 
clearly  and  promptly  the  eager  questions  put  by  the  two 
young  girls  ;  as  she  showed  them  in  her  answers  how  much 
and  what  serviceable  knowledge  she  had  acquired  of  the 
condition  of  her  fellow-creatures  round  her. 

Shirley  placed  at  her  disposal  300Z.,  and  at  the  sight  of 
the  money  Miss  Ainley's  eyes  filled  with  joyful  tears  ;  for 
she  already  saw  the  hungry  fed,  the  naked  clothed,  the 
sick  comforted  thereby.  She  quickly  drew  up  a  simple, 
sensible  plan  for  its  expenditure  ;  and  she  assured  them 
brighter  times  would  now  come  round,  for  she  doubted  not 
the  lady  of  Fieldhead's  example  would  be  followed  by  others  ; 
she  should  try  to  get  additional  subscriptions,  and  to  form  a 
fund ;  but  first  she  must  consult  the  clergy :  yes,  on  that 
point,  she  was  peremptory  :  Mr.  Helstone,  Dr.  Boultby,  Mr. 
Hall,  must  be  consulted— (for  not  only  must  Briarfield  be 
relieved,  but  Whinbury  and  Nunnely) — it  would,  she  averred, 


274  SHIELEY 

be  presumption  in  her  to  take  a  single  step  unauthorized  by 
them. 

The  clergy  were  sacred  beings  in  Miss  Ainley's  eyes  ;  no 
matter  what  might  be  the  insignificance  of  the  individual, 
his  station  made  him  holy.  The  very  curates — who,  in  their 
trivial  arrogance,  were  hardly  worthy  to  tie  her  patten- 
strings,  or  carry  her  cotton  umbrella  or  check  woollen  shawl 
— she,  in  her  pure,  sincere  enthusiasm,  looked  upon  as 
sucking  saints.  No  matter  how  clearly  their  little  vices  and 
enormous  absurdities  wei'e  pointed  out  to  her,  she  could  not 
see  them  :  she  was  blind  to  ecclesiastical  defects  :  the  white 
surplice  covered  a  multitude  of  sins. 

Shirley,  knowing  this  harmless  infatuation  on  the  part  of 
her  recently  chosen  prime  minister,  stipulated  expressly  that 
the  curates  were  to  have  no  voice  in  the  disposal  of  the  money ; 
that  their  meddling  fingers  were  not  to  be  inserted  into  the 
pie.  The  rectors,  of  course,  must  be  paramount,  and  they 
might  be  trusted  :  they  had  some  experience,  some  sagacity, 
and  Mr.  Hall,  at  least,  had  sympathy  and  loving-kindness 
for  his  fellow-men ;  but  as  for  the  youth  under  them,  they 
must  be  set  aside,  kept  down,  and  taught  that  subordination 
and  silence  best  became  their  years  and  capacity. 

It  was  with  some  horror  Miss  Ainley  heard  this  language  : 
Caroline,  however,  interposing  with  a  mild  word  or  two  in 
praise  of  Mr.  Sweeting,  calmed  her  again.  Sweeting  was, 
indeed,  her  own  favourite  :  she  endeavoured  to  respect  Messrs. 
Malone  and  Donne ;  but  the  slices  of  sponge-cake,  and 
glasses  of  cowslip  or  primrose  wine,  she  had  at  different 
times  administered  to  Sweeting,  when  he  came  to  see  her  in 
her  little  cottage,  were  ever  offered  with  sentiments  of  truly 
motherly  regard.  The  same  innocuous  collation  she  had 
once  presented  to  Malone  ;  but  that  personage  evinced  such 
open  scorn  of  the  offering,  she  had  never  ventured  to  renew 
it.  To  Donne  she  always  served  the  treat,  and  was  happy 
to  see  his  approbation  of  it  proved  beyond  a  doubt,  by  the 
fact  of  his  usually  eating  two  pieces  of  cake  and  putting  a 
third  in  his  pocket. 


SHIKLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WOKKS    275 

Indefatigable  in  her  exertions  where  good  was  to  be  done, 
Miss  Ainley  would  immediately  have  set  out  on  a  walk 
of  ten  miles  round  to  the  three  rectors  in  order  to  show  her 
plan,  and  humbly  solicit  their  approval :  but  Miss  Keeldar 
interdicted  this,  and  proposed  as  an  amendment,  to  collect 
the  clergy  in  a  small  select  reunion  that  evening  at  Field- 
head.  Miss  Ainley  was  to  meet  them,  and  the  plan  was  to 
be  discussed  in  full  privy  council. 

Shirley  managed  to  get  the  senior  priesthood  together 
accordingly  ;  and  before  the  old  maid's  arrival  she  had, 
further,  talked  all  the  gentlemen  into  the  most  charming 
mood  imaginable.  She  herself  had  taken  in  hand  Dr. 
Boultby  and  Mr.  Helstone.  The  first  was  a  stubborn  old 
Welshman,  hot,  opinionated,  and  obstinate,  but  withal  a  man 
who  did  a  great  deal  of  good,  though  not  without  making 
some  noise  about  it :  the  latter,  we  know.  She  had  rather 
a  friendly  feeling  for  both  ;  especially  for  old  Helstone ;  and 
it  cost  her  no  trouble  to  be  quite  delightful  to  them.  She 
took  them  round  the  garden  ;  she  gathered  them  flowers  ;  she 
was  like  a  kind  daughter  to  them.  Mr.  Hall  she  left  to 
Caroline — or  rather,  it  was  to  Caroline's  care  Mr.  Hall 
consigned  himself. 

He  generally  sought  Caroline  in  every  party  where  she 
and  he  happened  to  be.  He  was  not  in  general  a  lady's  man, 
though  all  ladies  liked  him :  something  of  a  book-worm  he 
was,  near-sighted,  spectacled,  now  and  then  abstracted.  To 
old  ladies  he  was  kind  as  a  son.  To  men  of  every  occupation 
and  grade  he  was  acceptable  :  the  truth,  simplicity,  frankness 
of  his  manners,  the  nobleness  of  his  integrity,  the  reality  and 
elevation  of  his  piety,  won  him  friends  in  every  grade  :  his 
poor  clerk  and  sexton  delighted  in  him  ;  the  noble  patron  of 
his  living  esteemed  him  highly.  It  was  only  with  young, 
handsome,  fashionable,  and  stylish  ladies  he  felt  a  little  shy  : 
being  himself  a  plain  man — plain  in  aspect,  plain  in  manners, 
plain  in  speech — he  seemed  to  fear  their  dash,  elegance,  and 
airs.  But  Miss  Helstone  had  neither  dash  nor  airs,  and  her 
native  elegance  was  of  a  very  quiet  order — quiet  as  the 


276  SHIRLEY 

beauty  of  a  ground-loving  hedge-flower.  He  was  a  fluent, 
cheerful,  agreeable  talker.  Caroline  could  talk,  too,  in  a 
t£te-&-t&te :  she  liked  Mr.  Hall  to  come  and  take  the  seat 
next  her  in  a  party,  and  thus  secure  her  from  Peter 
Augustus  Malone,  Joseph  Donne,  or  John  Sykes ;  and  Mr. 
Hall  never  failed  to  avail  himself  of  this  privilege  when  he 
possibly  could.  Such  preference  shown  by  a  single  gentle- 
man to  a  single  lady  would  certainly,  in  ordinary  cases,  have 
set  in  motion  the  tongues  of  the  gossips ;  but  Cyril  Hall 
was  forty-five  years  old,  slightly  bald,  and  slightly  gray, 
and  nobody  ever  said  or  thought  he  was  likely  to  be  married 
to  Miss  Helstone.  Nor  did  he  think  so  himself :  he  was 
wedded  already  to  his  books  and  his  parish  :  his  kind  sister 
Margaret,  spectacled  and  learned  like  himself,  made  him 
happy  in  his  single  state  ;  he  considered  it  too  late  to  change. 
Besides,  he  had  known  Caroline  as  a  pretty  little  girl :  she 
had  sat  on  his  knee  many  a  time ;  he  had  bought  her  toys 
and  given  her  books  ;  he  felt  that  her  friendship  for  him  was 
mixed  with  a  sort  of  filial  respect ;  he  could  not  have 
brought  himself  to  attempt  to  give  another  colour  to  her 
sentiments,  and  his  serene  mind  could  glass  a  fair  image 
without  feeling  its  depths  troubled  by  the  reflection. 

When  Miss  Ainley  arrived,  she  was  made  kindly  welcome 
by  every  one :  Mrs.  Pryor  and  Margaret  Hull  made  room 
for  her  on  the  sofa  between  them ;  and  when  the  three  were 
seated,  they  formed  a  trio  which  the  gay  and  thoughtless 
would  have  scorned,  indeed,  as  quite  worthless  and  un- 
attractive— a  middle-aged  widow  and  two  plain  spectacled 
old  maids — yet  which  had  its  own  quiet  value,  as  many  a 
suffering  and  friendless  human  being  knew. 

Shirley  opened  the  business  and  showed  the  plan. 

'  I  know  the  hand  which  drew  up  that,'  said  Mr.  Hall, 
glancing  at  Miss  Ainley,  and  smiling  benignantly :  his 
approbation  was  won  at  once.  Boultby  heard  and  de- 
liberated with  bent  brow  and  protruded  under  lip :  his 
consent  he  considered  too  weighty  to  be  given  in  a  hurry. 
Helstone  glancud  sluuply  round  with  an  alert,  suspicious 


SHIELEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WOEKS    277 

expression,  as  if  he  apprehended  that  female  craft  was  at 
work,  and  that  something  in  petticoats  was  somehow  trying 
underhand  to  acquire  too  much  influence,  and  make  itself  of 
too  much  importance.  Shirley  caught  and  comprehended  the 
expression  : — '  This  scheme  is  nothing,'  said  she,  carelessly ; 
'  it  is  only  an  outline — a  mere  suggestion ;  you,  gentlemen, 
are  requested  to  draw  up  rules  of  your  own.' 

And  she  directly  fetched  her  writing-case,  smiling  queerly 
to  herself  as  she  bent  over  the  table  where  it  stood :  she 
produced  a  sheet  of  paper,  a  new  pen,  drew  an  arm-chair  to 
the  table,  and  presenting  her  hand  to  old  Helstone,  begged 
permission  to  instal  him  in  it.  For  a  minute  he  was  a  little 
stiff,  and  stood  wrinkling  his  copper-coloured  forehead 
strangely.  At  last  he  muttered  :— '  Well — you  are  neither 
my  wife  nor  my  daughter,  so  I'll  be  led  for  once  ;  but  mind — 
I  know  I  am  led :  your  little  female  manoeuvres  don't  blind 
me.' 

'  Oh ! '  said  Shirley,  dipping  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and 
putting  it  into  his  hand,  '  you  must  regard  me  as  Captain 
Keeldar  to-day.  This  is  quite  a  gentleman's  affair — yours 
and  mine  entirely,  Doctor  '  (so  she  had  dubbed  the  Eector). 
'  The  ladies  there  are  only  to  be  our  aides-de-camp,  and  at 
their  peril  they  speak,  till  we  have  settled  the  whole 
business.' 

He  smiled  a  little  grimly,  and  began  to  write.  He  soon 
interrupted  himself  to  ask  questions,  and  consult  his 
brethren,  disdainfully  lifting  his  glance  over  the  curly  heads 
of  the  two  girls,  and  the  demure  caps  of  the  elder  ladies  to 
meet  the  winking  glasses  and  gray  pates  of  the  priests.  In 
the  discussion  which  ensued,  all  three  gentlemen,  to  their 
infinite  credit,  showed  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the 
poor  of  their  parishes, — an  even  minute  knowledge  of  their 
separate  wants.  Each  rector  knew  where  clothing  was 
needed,  where  food  would  be  most  acceptable,  where  money 
could  be  bestowed  with  a  probability  of  it  being  judiciously 
laid  out.  Wherever  their  memories  fell  short,  Miss  Ainley 
or  Miss  Hall,  if  applied  to,  could  help  them  out ;  but  both 


278  SHIRLEY 

ladies  took  care  not  to  speak  unless  spoken  to.  Neither 
of  them  wanted  to  be  foremost,  but  each  sincerely  desired  to 
be  useful,  and  useful  the  clergy  consented  to  make  them  :  with 
which  boon  they  were  content. 

Shirley  stood  behind  the  rectors,  leaning  over  their 
shoulders  now  and  then  to  glance  at  the  rules  drawn  up,  and 
the  list  of  cases  making  out,  listening  to  all  they  said,  and 
still  at  intervals  smiling  her  queer  smile — a  smile  not  ill- 
natured,  but  significant :  too  significant  to  be  generally  thought 
amiable.  Men  rarely  like  such  of  their  fellows  as  read  their 
inward  nature  too  clearly  and  truly.  It  is  good  for  women, 
especially,  to  be  endowed  with  a  soft  blindness  :  to  have  mild, 
dim  eyes,  that  never  penetrate  below  the  surface  of  things — 
that  take  all  for  what  it  seems  :  thousands,  knowing  this, 
keep  their  eyelids  drooped,  on  system  ;  but  the  most  down- 
cast glance  has  its  loophole,  through  which  it  can,  on 
occasion,  take  its  sentinel-survey  of  life.  I  remember  once 
seeing  a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  that  were  usually  thought  sleepy, 
secretly  on  the  alert,  and  I  knew  by  their  expression — an 
expression  which  chilled  my  blood,  it  was  in  that  quarter  so 
wondrously  unexpected — that  for  years  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  silent  soul-reading.  The  world  called  the 
owner  of  these  blue  eyes  '  bonne  petite  femme  '  (she  was 
not  an  Englishwoman) :  I  learned  her  nature  afterwards — 
got  it  off  by  heart — studied  it  in  its  farthest,  most  hidden 
recesses — she  was  the  finest,  deepest,  subtlest  schemer  in 
Europe. 

When  all  was  at  length  settled  to  Miss  Keeldar's  mind, 
and  the  clergy  had  entered  so  fully  into  the  spirit  of  her 
plans  as  to  head  the  subscription-list  with  their  signatures 
for  50Z.  each,  she  ordered  supper  to  be  served ;  having 
previously  directed  Mrs.  Gill  to  exercise  her  utmost  skill  in  the 
preparation  of  this  repast.  Mr.  Hall  was  no  bon-vivant :  ho 
was  naturally  an  abstemious  man,  indifferent  to  luxury  ;  but 
Boultby  and  Helstone  both  liked  good  cookery ;  the  reciter ch6 
supper  consequently  put  them  into  excellent  humour  :  they 
did  justice  to  it,  though  in  a  gentlemanly  way— not  in  the 


SHIRLEY  SEEKS  TO  BE  SAVED  BY  WORKS    279 

mode  Mr.  Donne  would  have  done,  had  he  been  present.  A 
glass  of  fine  wine  was  likewise  tasted,  with  discerning  though 
most  decorous  relish.  Captain  Keeldar  was  complimented 
on  his  taste ;  the  compliment  charmed  him  :  it  had  been  his 
aim  to  gratify  and  satisfy  his  priestly  guests :  he  had  suc- 
ceeded, and  was  radiant  with  glee. 


CHAPTEE  XV 
MB.  DONNE'S  EXODUS 

THE  next  day  Shirley  expressed  to  Caroline  how  delighted 
she  felt  that  the  little  party  had  gone  off  so  well. 

'  I  rather  like  to  entertain  a  circle  of  gentlemen,'  said 
she :  '  it  is  amusing  to  observe  how  they  enjoy  a  judiciously 
concocted  repast ;  for  ourselves,  you  see,  these  choice  wines 
and  these  scientific  dishes  are  of  no  importance  to  us ;  but 
gentlemen  seem  to  retain  something  of  the  naivete  of  children 
about  food,  and  one  likes  to  please  them  :  that  is,  when  they 
show  the  becoming,  decent  self-government  of  our  admirable 
rectors.  I  watch  Moore  sometimes,  to  try  and  discover 
how  he  can  be  pleased ;  but  he  has  not  that  child's  simplicity 
about  him.  Did  you  ever  find  out  his  accessible  point, 
Caroline  ?  You  have  seen  more  of  him  than  I.' 

'  It  is  not,  at  any  rate,  that  of  my  uncle  and  Dr.  Boultby,' 
returned  Caroline,  smiling.  She  always  felt  a  sort  of  shy 
pleasure  in  following  Miss  Keeldar's  lead  respecting  the 
discussion  of  her  cousin's  character :  left  to  herself,  she 
would  never  have  touched  on  the  subject;  but  when  invited, 
the  temptation  of  talking  about  him  of  whom  she  was  ever 
thinking  was  irresistible.  '  But,'  she  added,  '  I  really  don't 
know  what  it  is ;  for  I  never  watched  Eobert  in  my  life 
but  my  scrutiny  was  presently  baffled  by  finding  he  was 
watching  me.' 

'  There  it  is  I  '  exclaimed  Shirley  :  '  you  can't  fix  your 
eyes  on  him  but  his  presently  flash  on  you.  He  is  never 
off  his  guard :  he  won't  give  you  an  advantage  :  even  when 
he  does  not  look  at  you,  his  thoughts  seem  to  be  busy 


MB.  DONNE'S  EXODUS  281 

amongst  your  own  thoughts,  tracing  your  words  and  actions 
to  their  source,  contemplating  your  motives  at  his  ease. 
Oh  !  I  know  that  sort  of  character,  or  something  in  the 
same  style  :  it  is  one  that  piques  me  singularly — how  does 
it  affect  you  ? ' 

This  question  was  a  specimen  of  one  of  Shirley's  sharp, 
sudden  turns  :  Caroline  used  to  be  fluttered  by  them  at  first, 
but  she  had  now  got  into  the  way  of  parrying  these  home- 
thrusts  like  a  little  quakeress. 

'  Pique  you  ?  In  what  way  does  it  pique  you  ? '  she 
said. 

'  Here  he  comes  ! '  suddenly  exclaimed  Shirley,  breaking 
off,  starting  up  and  running  to  the  window.  '  Here  comes 
a  diversion.  I  never  told  you  of  a  superb  conquest  I  have 
made  lately — made  at  those  parties  to  which  I  can  never 
persuade  you  to  accompany  me ;  and  the  thing  has  been 
done  without  effort  or  intention  on  my  part :  that  I  aver. 
There  is  the  bell — and,  by  all  that's  delicious !  there  are 
two  of  them.  Do  they  never  hunt,  then,  except  in  couples  ? 
You  may  have  one,  Lina,  and  you  may  take  your  choice  : 
I  hope  I  am  generous  enough.  Listen  to  Tartar  ! ' 

The  black-muzzled,  tawny  dog,  a  glimpse  of  which  was 
seen  in  the  chapter  which  first  introduced  its  mistress  to  the 
reader,  here  gave  tongue  in  the  hall,  amidst  whose  hollow 
space  the  deep  bark  resounded  formidably.  A  growl,  more 
terrible  than  the  bark — menacing  as  muttered  thunder — 
succeeded. 

'  Listen  ! '  again  cried  Shirley,  laughing.  '  You  would 
think  that  the  prelude  to  a  bloody  onslaught :  they  will  be 
frightened :  they  don't  know  old  Tartar  as  I  do  :  they  are 
not  aware  his  uproars  are  all  sound  and  fury,  signifying 
nothing. 

Some  bustle  was  heard 

'  Down,  sir  ! — down  ! '  exclaimed  a  high-toned,  imperious 
voice,  and  then  came  a  crack  of  a  cane  or  whip.  Im- 
mediately there  was  a  yell — a  scutter — a  run — a  positive 
tumult. 


282  SHIKLEY 

'  Oh !  Malone !  Malone  ! ' 

'  Down  !  down  !  down ! '  cried  the  high  voice. 

'  He  really  is  worrying  them  ! '  exclaimed  Shirley.  '  They 
have  struck  him  :  a  blow  is  what  he  is  not  used  to,  and  will 
not  take.' 

Out  she  ran,  a  gentleman  was  fleeing  up  the  oak  stair- 
case, making  for  refuge  in  the  gallery  or  chambers  in  hot 
haste ;  another  was  backing  fast  to  the  stair-foot,  wildly 
flourishing  a  knotty  stick,  at  the  same  time  reiterating, 
'  Down !  down !  down !  '  while  the  tawny  dog  bayed, 
bellowed,  howled  at  him,  and  a  group  of  servants  came 
bundling  from  the  kitchen.  The  dog  made  a  spring :  the 
second  gentleman  turned  tail  and  rushed  after  his  comrade  : 
the  first  was  already  safe  in  a  bed-room  :  he  held  the  door 
against  his  fellow  ; — nothing  so  merciless  as  terror  ; — but 
the  other  fugitive  struggled  hard :  the  door  was  about  to  yield 
to  his  strength. 

'  Gentlemen,'  was  uttered  in  Miss  Keeldar's  silvery  but 
vibrating  tones,  '  spare  my  locks,  if  you  please.  Calm  your- 
selves ! — come  down  !  Look  at  Tartar, — he  wont  harm  a 
cat.' 

She  was  caressing  the  said  Tartar :  he  lay  crouched 
at  her  feet,  his  fore-paws  stretched  out,  his  tail  still  in 
threatening  agitation,  his  nostrils  snorting,  his  bulldog  eyes 
conscious  of  a  dull  fire.  He  was  an  honest,  phlegmatic, 
stupid,  but  stubborn  canine  character  :  he  loved  his  mistress, 
and  John — the  man  who  fed  him, — but  was  mostly  in- 
different to  the  rest  of  the  world :  quiet  enough  he  was, 
unless  struck  or  threatened  with  a  stick,  and  that  put  a 
demon  into  him  at  once. 

'  Mr.  Malone,  how  do  you  do  ? '  continued  Shirley,  lifting 
up  her  mirth-lit  face  to  the  gallery.  '  That  is  not  the  way 
to  the  oak- parlour  :  that  is  Mrs.  Pryor's  apartment.  Eequest 
your  friend  Mr.  Donne  to  evacuate  :  I  shall  have  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  receiving  him  in  a  lower  room. 

'  Ha !  ha  ! '  cried  Malone,  in  hollow  laughter,  quitting 
the  door,  and  leaning  over  the  massive  balustrade.  '  Beally 


MR.   DONNE'S   EXODUS  283 

that  animal  alarmed  Donne.  He  is  a  little  timid,'  he 
proceeded,  stiffening  himself,  and  walking  trimly  to  the 
stairhead.  '  I  thought  it  better  to  follow,  in  order  to  reassure 
him.' 

'  It  appears  you  did :  well,  come  down,  if  you  please. 
John '  (turning  to  her  man-servant),  '  go  up-stairs  and 
liberate  Mr.  Donne.  Take  care,  Mr.  Malone,  the  stairs  are 
slippery.' 

In  truth  they  were  ;  being  of  polished  oak.  The  caution 
came  a  little  late  for  Malone  :  he  had  slipped  already  in  his 
stately  descent,  and  was  only  saved  from  falling  by  a  clutch 
at  the  banisters,  which  made  the  whole  structure  creak 
again. 

Tartar  seemed  to  think  the  visitor's  descent  effected  with 
unwarranted  6clat,  and  accordingly  he  growled  once  more. 
Malone,  however,  was  no  coward  :  the  spring  of  the  dog 
had  taken  him  by  surprise ;  but  he  passed  him  now  in 
suppressed  fury  rather  than  fear :  if  a  look  could  have 
strangled  Tartar,  he  would  have  breathed  no  more.  -  For- 
getting politeness  in  his  sullen  rage,  Malone  pushed  into 
the  parlour  before  Miss  Keeldar.  He  glanced  at  Miss 
Helstone  ;  he  could  scarcely  bring  himself  to  bend  to  her. 
He  glared  on  both  the  ladies  :  he  looked  as  if,  had  either  of 
them  been  his  wife,  he  would  have  made  a  glorious  husband 
at  the  moment :  in  each  hand  he  seemed  as  if  he  would 
have  liked  to  clutch  one  and  gripe  her  to  death. 

However,  Shirley  took  pity :  she  ceased  to  laugh  ;  and 
Caroline  was  too  true  a  lady  to  smile  even  at  any  one  under 
mortification.  Tartar  was  dismissed ;  Peter  Augustus  was 
soothed :  for  Shirley  had  looks  and  tones  that  might 
soothe  a  very  bull :  he  had  sense  to  feel  that,  since  he  could 
not  challenge  the  owner  of  the  dog,  he  had  better  be  civil : 
and  civil  he  tried  to  be ;  and  his  attempts  being  well  received, 
he  grew  presently  very  civil  and  quite  himself  again.  He 
had  come,  indeed,  for  the  express  purpose  of  making  himself 
charming  and  fascinating :  rough  portents  had  met  him  on 
his  first  admission  to  Fieldhead ;  but  that  passage  got  over, 


284  SHIELEY 

charming  and  fascinating  he  resolved  to  be.  Like  March, 
having  come  in  like  a  lion,  he  purposed  to  go  out  like  a 
lamb. 

For  the  sake  of  air,  as  it  appeared,  or  perhaps  for  that  of 
ready  exit  in  case  of  some  new  emergency  arising,  he  took 
his  seat — not  on  the  sofa,  where  Miss  Keeldar  offered  him 
enthronization,  nor  yet  near  the  fireside,  to  which  Caroline, 
by  a  friendly  sign,  gently  invited  him, — but  on  a  chair  close 
to  the  door.  Being  no  longer  sullen  or  furious,  he  grew, 
after  his  fashion,  constrained  and  embarrassed.  He  talked 
to  the  ladies  by  fits  and  starts,  choosing  for  topics  whatever 
was  most  intensely  commonplace :  he  sighed  deeply, 
significantly,  at  the  close  of  every  sentence ;  he  sighed  in 
each  pause ;  he  sighed  ere  he  opened  his  mouth.  At  last, 
finding  it  desirable  to  add  ease  to  his  other  charms,  he  drew 
forth  to  aid  him  an  ample  silk  pocket-handkerchief.  This 
was  to  be  the  graceful  toy  with  which  his  unoccupied 
hands  were  to  trifle.  He  went  to  work  with  a  certain 
energy  :  he  folded  the  red  and  yellow  square  cornerwise  ;  he 
whipped  it  open  with  a  waft :  again  he  folded  it  in  narrower 
compass  :  he  made  of  it  a  handsome  band.  To  what  purpose 
would  he  proceed  to  apply  the  ligature  ?  Would  he  wrap 
it  about  his  throat — his  head?  Should  it  be  a  comforter  or 
a  turban  ?  Neither.  Peter  Augustus  had  an  inventive — an 
original  genius  :  he  was  about  to  show  the  ladies  graces  of 
action  possessing  at  least  the  charm  of  novelty.  He  sat  on 
the  chair  with  his  athletic  Irish  legs  crossed,  and  these  legs, 
in  that  attitude,  he  circled  with  the  bandana  and  bound 
firmly  together.  It  was  evident  he  felt  this  device  to  be 
worth  an  encore :  he  repeated  it  more  than  once.  The 
second  performance  sent  Shirley  to  the  window  to  laugh  her 
silent  but  irrepressible  laugh  unseen :  it  turned  Caroline's 
head  aside,  that  her  long  curls  might  screen  the  smile 
mantling  on  her  features.  Miss  Helstone,  indeed,  was 
amused  by  more  than  one  point  in  Peter's  demeanour  :  she 
was  edified  at  the  complete  though  abrupt  diversion  of  his 
homage  from  herself  to  the  heiress  :  the  5,000/.  he  supposed 


MB.  DONNE'S  EXODUS  285 

her  likely  one  day  to  inherit,  were  not  to  be  weighed  in  the 
balance  against  Miss  Keeldar's  estate  and  hall.  He  took  no 
pains  to  conceal  his  calculations  and  tactics  :  he  pretended 
to  no  gradual  change  of  views  :  he  wheeled  about  at  once  : 
the  pursuit  of  the  lesser  fortune  was  openly  relinquished  for 
that  of  the  greater.  On  what  grounds  he  expected  to 
succeed  in  his  chase,  himself  best  knew :  certainly  not  by 
skilful  management. 

From  the  length  of  time  that  elapsed,  it  appeared  that 
John  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  Mr.  Donne  to 
descend.  At  length,  however,  that  gentleman  appeared  :  nor, 
as  he  presented  himself  at  the  oak-parlour  door,  did  he 
seem  in  the  slightest  degree  ashamed  or  confused — not  a 
whit.  Donne,  indeed,  was  of  that  coldly  phlegmatic, 
immovably  complacent,  densely  self-satisfied  nature  which 
is  insensible  to  shame.  He  had  never  blushed  in  his  life  : 
no  humiliation  could  abash  him :  his  nerves  were  not 
capable  of  sensation  enough  to  stir  his  life,  and  make  colour 
mount  to  his  cheek :  he  had  no  fire  in  his  blood,  and  no  modesty 
in  his  soul :  he  was  a  frontless,  arrogant,  decorous  slip  of  the 
commonplace  ;  conceited,  inane,  insipid :  and  this  gentleman 
had  a  notion  of  wooing  Miss  Keeldar  !  He  knew  no  more, 
however,  how  to  set  about  the  business  than  if  he  had  been 
an  image  carved  in  wood :  he  had  no  idea  of  a  taste  to  be 
pleased,  a  heart  to  be  reached  in  courtship  :  his  notion  was, 
when  he  should  have  formally  visited  her  a  few  times,  to 
write  a  letter  proposing  marriage :  then  he  calculated  she 
would  accept  him  for  love  of  his  office,  then  they  would  bo 
married,  then  he  should  be  master  of  Fieldhead,  and  he  should 
live  very  comfortably,  have  servants  at  his  command,  eat 
and  drink  of  the  best,  and  be  a  great  man.  You  would  not 
have  suspected  his  intentions  when  he  addressed  his 
intended  bride  in  an  impertinent,  injured  tone:  -'A  very 
dangerous  dog  that,  Miss  Keeldar.  I  wonder  you  should 
keep  such  an  animal.' 

'  Do  you,  Mr.  Donne  ?  Perhaps  you  will  wonder  more 
when  I  tell  you  I  am  very  fond  of  him.' 


SHIRLM 

'  I  should  say  you  are  not  serious  in  the  assertion. 
Can't  fancy  a  lady  fond  of  that  brute — 'tis  so  ugly — a  mere 
carter's  dog— pray  hang  him.' 

'  Hang  what  I  am  fond  of  ? ' 

'  And  purchase  in  his  stead  some  sweetly  pooty  pug  or 
poodle :  something  appropriate  to  the  fair  sex :  ladies 
generally  like  lap-dogs.' 

'Perhaps  I  am  an  exception. 

1  Oh !  you  can't  be,  you  know.  All  ladies  are  alike  in 
those  matters  :  that  is  universally  allowed.' 

'  Tartar  frightened  you  terribly,  Mr.  Donne.  I  hope  you 
won't  take  any  harm.' 

'That  I  shall,  no  doubt.  He  gave  me  a  turn  I  shall 
not  soon  forget.  When  I  sor  him '  (such  was  Mr.  Donne's 
pronunciation)  '  about  to  spring,  I  thought  I  should  have 
fainted.' 

1  Perhaps  you  did  faint  in  the  bed-room — you  were  a  long 
time  there  ? ' 

'  No ;  I  bore  up  that  I  might  hold  the  door  fast :  I  was 
determined  not  to  let  any  one  enter  :  I  thought  I  would  keep 
a  barrier  between  me  and  the  enemy.' 

'  But  what  if  your  friend  Mr.  Malone  had  been 
worried  ? ' 

'  Malone  must  take  care  of  himself.  Your  man  persuaded 
me  to  come  out  at  last  by  saying  the  dog  was  chained  up  in 
his  kennel :  if  I  had  not  been  assured  of  this,  I  would  have 
remained  all  day  in  the  chamber.  But  what  is  that  ?  I 
declare  the  man  has  told  a  falsehood  !  The  dog  is  there  1 ' 

And  indeed  Tartar  walked  past  the  glass-door  opening  to 
the  garden,  stiff,  tawny,  and  black-muzzled  as  ever.  He 
still  seemed  in  bad  humour ;  he  was  growling  again,  and 
whistling  a  half-strangled  whistle,  being  an  inheritance  from 
the  bulldog  side  of  his  ancestry. 

'  There  are  other  visitors  coming,'  observed  Shirley,  with 
that  provoking  coolness  which  the  owners  of  formidable- 
looking  dogs  are  apt  to  show  while  their  animals  are  all  bristle 
and  bay.  Tartar  sprang  down  the  pavement  towards  the 


ME.  DONNE'S  EXODUS  287 

gate,  bellowing  'avec  explosion.'  His  mistress  quietly 
opened  the  glass-door,  and  stepped  out  chirruping  to  him. 
His  bellow  was  already  silenced,  and  he  was  lifting  up  his 
huge,  blunt,  stupid  head  to  the  new  callers  to  be  patted. 

'  What — Tartar,  Tartar  ! '  said  a  cheery,  rather  boyish 
voice  :  '  don't  you  know  us  ?  Good-morning,  old  boy  ! ' 

And  little  Mr.  Sweeting,  whose  conscious  good-nature 
made  him  comparatively  fearless  of  man,  woman,  child,  or 
brute,  came  through  the  gate,  caressing  the  guardian.  His 
vicar,  Mr.  Hall,  followed :  he  had  no  fear  of  Tartar  either, 
and  Tartar  had  no  ill-will  to  him :  he  snuffed  both  the 
gentlemen  round,  and  then,  as  if  concluding  that  they  were 
harmless,  and  might  be  allowed  to  pass,  he  withdrew  to  the 
sunny  front  of  the  hall,  leaving  the  archway  free.  Mr. 
Sweeting  followed,  and  would  have  played  with  him,  but 
Tartar  took  no  notice  of  his  caresses :  it  was  only  his 
mistress's  hand  whose  touch  gave  ,him  pleasure ;  to  all 
others  he  showed  himself  obstinately  insensible. 

Shirley  advanced  to  meet  Messrs.  Hall  and  Sweeting, 
shaking  hands  with  them  cordially  :  they  were  come  to  tell 
her  of  certain  successes  they  had  achieved  that  morning  in 
application  for  subscriptions  to  the  fund.  Mr.  Hall's  eyes 
beamed  benignantly  through  his  spectacles  :  his  plain  face 
looked  positively  handsome  with  goodness,  and  when 
Caroline,  seeing  who  was  come,  ran  out  to  meet  him,  and 
put  both  her  hands  into  his,  he  gazed  down  on  her  with  a 
gentle,  serene,  affectionate  expression,  that  gave  him  the 
aspect  of  a  smiling  Melanchthon. 

Instead  of  re-entering  the  house,  they  strayed  through 
the  garden,  the  ladies  walking  one  on  each  side  of  Mr.  Hall. 
It  was  a  breezy  sunny  day  ;  the  air  freshened  the  girls'  cheeks, 
and  gracefully  dishevelled  their  ringlets :  both  of  them 
looked  pretty, — one,  gay :  Mr.  Hall  spoke  oftenest  to  his 
brilliant  companion,  looked  most  frequently  at  the  quiet  one. 
Miss  Keeldar  gathered  handfuls  of  the  profusely  blooming 
flowers,  whose  perfume  filled  the  enclosure  ;  she  g:ive  some 
to  Caroline,  telling  her  to  choose  a  nosegay  for  Mr.  Hall ;  and 


288  SHIELEY 

with  her  lap  filled  with  delicate  and  splendid  blossoms, 
Caroline  sat  down  on  tb,e  steps  of  a  summer-house  :  the 
Vicar  stood  near  her,  leaning  on  his  cane. 

Shirley,  who  could  not  be  inhospitable,  now  called  out 
the  neglected  pair  in  the  oak  parlour  :  she  convoyed  Donne 
past  his  dread  enemy  Tartar,  who,  with  his  nose  on  his  fore- 
paws,  lay  snoring  under  the  meridian  sun.  Donne  was  not 
grateful :  he  never  was  grateful  for  kindness  and  attention  ; 
but  he  was  glad  of  the  safeguard.  Miss  Keeldar,  desirous 
of  being  impartial,  offered  the  curates  flowers  :  they  accepted 
them  with  native  awkwardness.  Malone  seemed  specially 
at  a  loss,  when  a  bouquet  filled  one  hand,  while  his  shillelagh 
occupied  the  other.  Donne's  '  Thank  you  ! '  was  rich  to 
hear :  it  was  the  most  fatuous  and  arrogant  of  sounds 
implying  that  he  considered  this  offering  an  homage  to  his 
merits,  and  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  heiress  to  ingratiate 
herself  into  his  priceless  affections.  Sweeting  alone  received 
the  posy  like  a  smart,  sensible,  little  man,  as  he  was  ;  putting 
it  gallantly  and  nattily  into  his  buttonhole. 

As  a  reward  for  his  good  manners,  Miss  Keeldar,  beckon- 
ing him  apart,  gave  him  some  commission,  which  made  his 
eyes  sparkle  with  glee.  Away  he  flew,  round  by  the  court- 
yard to  the  kitchen  :  no  need  to  give  him  directions ;  he  was 
always  at  home  everywhere.  Erelong  he  reappeared,  carry- 
ing a  round  table,  which  he  placed  under  the  cedar ;  then 
he  collected  six  garden-chairs  from  various  nooks  and 
bowers  in  the  grounds,  and  placed  them  in  a  circle.  The 
parlour-maid— Miss  Keeldar  kept  no  footman — came  out, 
bearing  a  napkin -covered  tray.  Sweeting's  nimble  fingers 
aided  in  disposing  glasses,  plates,  knives  and  forks :  he 
assisted  her  too  in  setting  forth  a  neat  luncheon,  consisting 
of  cold  chicken,  harn,  and  tarts. 

This  sort  of  impromptu  regale,  it  was  Shirley's  delight  to 
offer  any  chance  guests  ;  and  nothing  pleased  her  better 
than  to  have  an  alert,  obliging  little  friend,  like  Sweeting, 
to  run  about  her  hand,  cheerily  receive  and  briskly  execute 
her  hospitable  hints.  David  and  she  were  on  the  best  terms 


MB.  DONNE'S  EXODUS  289 

in  the  world ;  and  his  devotion  to  the  heiress  was  quite 
disinterested,  since  it  prejudiced  in  nothing  his  faithful 
allegiance  to  the  magnificent  Dora  Sykes. 

The  repast  turned  out  a  very  rnerry  one.  Donne  and 
Malone,  indeed,  contributed  but  little  to  its  vivacity,  the  chief 
part  they  played  in  it  being  what  concerned  the  knife,  fork,  and 
wine-glass  ;  but  where  four  such  natures  as  Mr.  Hall,  David 
Sweeting,  Shirley,  and  Caroline,  were  assembled  in  health 
and  amity,  on  a  green  lawn,  under  a  sunny  sky,  amidst  a 
wilderness  of  flowers,  there  could  not  be  ungenial  dulness. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  Mr.  Hall  reminded  the 
ladies  that  Whitsuntide  was  approaching,  when  the  grand 
United  Sunday-School  tea-drinking  and  procession  of  the 
three  parishes  of  Briarfield,  Whinbury,  and  Nunnely  were 
to  take  place.  Caroline  he  knew  would  be  at  her  post  as 
teacher,  he  said,  and  he  hoped  Miss  Keeldar  would 
•not  be  wanting ;  he  hoped  she  would  make  her  first  public 
appearance  amongst  them  at  that  time.  Shirley  was  not 
the  person  to  miss  an  occasion  of  this  sort :  she  liked 
festive  excitement,  a  gathering  of  happiness,  a  concentration 
and  combination  of  pleasant  details,  a  throng  of  glad  faces, 
a  muster  of  elated  hearts :  she  told  Mr.  Hall  they  might 
count  on  her  with  security  :  she  did  not  know  what  she  would 
have  to  do,  but  they  might  dispose  of  her  as  they  pleased. 

'  And,'  said  Caroline,  '  you  will  promise  to  come  to  my 
table,  and  to  sit  near  me,  Mr.  Hall  ? ' 

'  I  shall  not  fail,  Deo  volente,'  said  he.  '  I  have  occupied 
the  place  on  her  right  hand  at  these  monster  tea-drinkings 
for  the  last  six  years,'  ho  proceeded,  turning  to  Miss  Keeldar. 
'  They  made  her  a  Sunday-School  teacher  when  she  was  a 
little  girl  of  twelve :  she  is  not  particularly  self-confident  by 
nature,  as  you  may  have  observed  ;  and  the  first  time  she 
had  to  "  take  a  tray,"  as  the  phrase  is,  and  make  tea  in  public, 
there  was  some  piteous  trembling  and  flushing.  I  observed 
the  speechless  panic,  the  cups  shaking  in  the  little  hand, 
and  the  overflowing  tea-pot  filled  too  full  from  the  urn.  I 
came  to  her  aid,  took  a  seat  near  her,  managed  the  urn  and 


290  SHIRLEY 

the  slop-basin,  and  in  fact  made  the  tea  for  her  like  any  old 
woman.' 

'  I  was  very  grateful  to  you,'  interposed  Caroline. 

1  You  were :  you  told  me  so  with  an  earnest  sincerity 
that  repaid  me  well ;  inasmuch  as  it  was  not  like  the 
majority  of  little  ladies  of  twelve,  whom  you  may  help  and 
caress  for  ever  without  their  evincing  any  quicker  sense  of 
the  kindness  done  and  meant  than  if  they  were  made  of  wax 
and  wood,  instead  of  flesh  and  nerves.  She  kept  close  to 
me,  Miss  Keeldar,  the  rest  of  the  evening,  walking  with  me 
over  the  grounds  where  the  children  were  playing ;  she 
followed  me  into  the  vestry  when  all  were  summoned  into 
church  :  she  would,  I  believe,  have  mounted  with  me  to  the 
pulpit,  had  I  not  taken  the  previous  precaution  of  conducting 
her  to  the  Eectory-pew.' 

'  And  he  has  been  my  friend  ever  since,'  said  Caroline. 

'  And  always  sat  at  her  table,  near  her  tray,  and  handed 
the  cups, — that  is  the  extent  of  my  services.  The  next 
thing  I  do  for  her  will  be  to  marry  her  some  day  to  some 
curate  or  mill-owner  :  but  mind,  Caroline,  I  shall  inquire 
about  the  bridegroom's  character,  and  if  he  is  not  a  gentle- 
man likely  to  render  happy  the  little  girl  who  walked  with 
me  hand  in  hand  over  Nunnely  Common,  I  will  not  officiate  : 
so  take  care.' 

'  The  caution  is  useless  :  I  am  not  going  to  be  married. 
I  shall  live  single  like  your  sister  Margaret,  Mr.  Hall.' 

'Very  well — you  might  do  worse— Margaret  is  not 
unhappy  :  she  has  her  books  for  a  pleasure,  and  her  brother 
for  a  care,  and  is  content.  If  ever  you  want  a  home ;  if  the 
day  should  come  when  Briarfield  Eectory  is  yours  no 
longer,  come  to  Nunnely  Vicarage.  Should  the  old  maid 
and  bachelor  be  still  living,  they  will  make  you  tenderly 
welcome.' 

'  There  are  your  flowers.  Now/  said  Caroline,  who  had 
kept  the  nosegay  she  had  selected  for  him  till  this  moment, 
'  you  don't  care  for  a  bouquet,  but  you  must  give  it  to 
Margaret :  only — to  be  sentimental  for  once — keep  that 


ME.   DONNE'S  EXODUS  291 

little  forget-me-not,  which  is  a  wild-flower  I  gathered  from 
the  grass ;  and — to  be  still  more  sentimental — let  me  take 
two  or  three  of  the  blue  blossoms  and  put  them  in  my 
souvenir.' 

And  she  took  out  a  small  book  with  enamelled  cover  and 
silver  clasp,  wherein,  having  opened  it,  she  inserted  the 
flowers,  writing  round  them  in  pencil — '  To  be  kept  for  the 
sake  of  the  Rev.  Cyril  Hall,  my  friend.  May  — ,  18 — .' 

The  Eev.  Cyril  Hall,  on  his  part  also,  placed  a  sprig  in 
safety  between  the  leaves  of  a  pocket  Testament :  he  only 
wrote  on  the  margin — '  Caroline.' 

1  Now,'  said  he  smiling,  '  I  trust  we  are  romantic  enough. 
Miss  Keeldar,'  he  continued  (the  curates,  by-the-by,  during 
this  conversation,  were  too  much  occupied  with  their  own 
jokes  to  notice  what  passed  at  the  other  end  of  the  table), 
'  I  hope  you  are  laughing  at  this  trait  of  "  exaltation  "  in  the 
old  gray-headed  Vicar  ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  am  so  used  to 
comply  with  the  requests  of  this  young  friend  of  yours,  I 
don't  know  how  to  refuse  her  when  she  tells  me  to  do  any- 
thing. You  would  say  it  is  not  much  in  my  way  to  traffic 
with  flowers  and  forget-me-nots  :  but,  you  see,  when  re- 
quested to  be  sentimental,  I  am  obedient.' 

'  He  is  naturally  rather  sentimental,'  remarked  Caroline ; 
'  Margaret  told  me  so,  and  I  know  what  pleases  him.' 

'  That  you  should  be  good  and  happy  ?  Yes  ;  that  is  one 
of  my  greatest  pleasures.  May  God  long  preserve  to  you 
the  blessings  of  peace  and  innocence  !  By  which  phrase,  I 
mean  comparative  innocence ;  for  in  His  sight,  I  am  well 
aware,  none  are  pure.  What,  to  our  human  perceptions, 
looks  spotless  as  we  fancy  angels,  is  to  Him  but  frailty,  need- 
ing the  blood  of  His  Son  to  cleanse,  and  the  strength  of  His 
Spirit  to  sustain.  Let  us  each  and  all  cherish  humility- — I, 
as  you,  my  young  friends ;  and  we  may  well  do  it  when  we 
look  into  our  own  hearts,  and  see  there  temptations, 
inconsistencies,  propensities,  even  we  blush  to  recognise. 
And  it  is  not  youth,  nor  good  looks,  nor  grace,  nor  any 
gentle  outside  charm  which  makes  either  beauty  or  goodness 


292  SHIRLEY 

in  God's  eyes.  Young  ladies,  when  your  mirror  or  men's 
tongues  flatter  you,  remember  that,  in  the  sight  of  her  Maker, 
Mary  Ann  Ainley — a  woman  whom  neither  glass  nor  lips 
have  ever  panegyrized — is  fairer  and  better  than  either  of 
you.  She  is,  indeed,'  he  added,  after  a  pause — '  she  is, 
indeed.  You  young  things — wrapt  up  in  yourselves  and  in 
earthly  hopes — scarcely  live  as  Christ  lived :  perhaps  you 
cannot  do  it  yet,  while  existence  is  so  sweet  and  earth  so 
smiling  to  you  :  it  would  be  too  much  to  expect :  she,  with 
meek  heart  and  due  reverence,  treads  close  in  her  Redeemer's 
steps.' 

Here  the  harsh  voice  of  Donne  broke  in  on  the  mild 
tones  of  Mr.  Hall :  '  Ahem ! '  he  began,  clearing  his  throat 
evidently  for  a  speech  of  some  importance.  '  Ahem  !  Miss 
Keeldar,  your  attention  an  instant,  if  you  please.' 

'Well,'  said  Shirley,  nonchalantly.  'What  is  it?  I 
listen  :  all  of  me  is  ear  that  is  not  eye.' 

'  I  hope  part  of  you  is  hand  also,'  returned  Donne,  in  his 
vulgarly  presumptuous  and  familiar  style,  '  and  part  purse  : 
it  is  to  the  hand  and  purse  I  propose  to  appeal.  I  came 
here  this  morning  with  a  view  to  beg  of  you — -' 

1  You  should  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Gill :  she  is  my 
almoner.' 

1  To  beg  of  you  a  subscription  to  a  school.  I  and 
Dr.  Boultby  intend  to  erect  one  in  the  hamlet  of  Ecclefigg, 
which  is  under  our  vicarage  of  Whinbury.  The  Baptists 
have  got  possession  of  it :  they  have  a  chapel  there,  and  we 
want  to  dispute  the  ground.' 

'  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Ecclefigg :  I  possess  no 
property  there.' 

'  What  does  that  signify  ?  You're  a  Churchwoman, 
ain't  you  ? ' 

'  Admirable  creature ! '  muttered  Shirley,  under  her 
breath  :  '  exquisite  address  :  fine  style  !  What  raptures  he 
excites  in  me ! '  then  aloud,  '  I  am  a  Churchwoman,  cer- 
tainly.' 

'  Then  you  can't  refuse  to  contribute  in  this  case.     The 


ME.   DONNE'S  EXODUS  293 

population  of  Ecolefigg  are  a  parcel  of  brutes — we  want  to 
civilise  them.' 

'  Who  is  to  be  the  missionary  ?  ' 

'  Myself,  probably.' 

'  You  won't  fail  through  lack  of  sympathy  with  your  flock.' 

'  I  hope  not — I  expect  success  ;  but  we  must  have  money. 
There  is  the  paper — pray  give  a  handsome  sum.' 

When  asked  for  money,  Shirley  rarely  held  back.  She 
put  down  her  name  for  51. :  after  the  300Z.  she  had  lately 
given,  and  the  many  smaller  sums  she  was  giving  constantly, 
it  was  as  much  as  she  could  at  present  afford.  Donne  looked 
at  it,  declared  the  subscription  '  shabby,'  and  clamoi'ously 
demanded  more.  Miss  Keeldar  flushed  up  with  some 
indignation  and  more  astonishment. 

'  At  present,  I  shall  give  no  more,'  said  she. 

'  Not  give  more  !  Why,  I  expected  you  to  head  the  list 
with  a  cool  hundred.  With  your  property,  you  should 
never  put  down  a  signature  for  less.' 

She  was  silent. 

'  In  the  south,'  went  on  Donne,  '  a  lady  with  a  thousand 
a  year  would  be  ashamed  to  give  five  pounds  for  a  public 
object.' 

Shirley,  so  rarely  haughty,  looked  so  now.  Her  slight 
frame  became  nerved;  her  distinguished  face  quickened 
with  scorn. 

1  Strange  remarks  !  '  said  she  :  '  most  inconsiderate  ! 
Reproach  in  return  for  bounty  is  misplaced.' 

'  Bounty  !     Do  you  call  five  pounds  bounty  ? ' 

'  I  do :  and  bounty  which,  had  I  not  given  it  to  Dr. 
Boultby's  intended  school,  of  the  erection  of  which  I 
approve,  and  in  no  sort  to  his  curate,  who  seems  ill-advised 
in  his  manner  of  applying  for — or  rather  extorting  subscrip- 
tions,— bounty,  I  repeat,  which,  but  for  this  consideration,  I 
should  instantly  reclaim.' 

Donne  was  thick-skinned :  he  did  not  feel  all  or  half  that 
the  true,  fair  glance  of  the  speaker  expressed  :  he  knew  not 
on  what  ground  he  stood, 


294  SHIBLEY 

'  Wretched  place — this  Yorkshire,'  he  went  on.  '  I  could 
never  have  formed  an  idear  of  the  country  had  I  not  seen 
it ;  and  the  people — rich  and  poor — what  a  set !  How  corse 
and  uncultivated  !  They  would  be  scouted  in  the  south.' 

Shirley  leaned  forwards  on  the  table,  her  nostrils  dilating 
a  little,  her  taper  fingers  interlaced  and  compressing  each 
other  hard. 

'  The  rich,'  pursued  the  infatuated  and  unconscious 
Donne,  '  are  a  parcel  of  misers — never  living  as  persons  with 
their  incomes  ought  to  live  :  you  scarsley ' — (you  must 
excuse  Mr.  Donne's  pronunciation,  reader ;  it  was  very 
choice  ;  he  considered  it  genteel,  and  prided  himself  on  his 
southern  accent ;  northern  ears  received  with  singular  sensa- 
tions his  utterance  of  certain  words) ;  '  you  scarsley  ever 
see  a  fam'ly  where  a  propa  carriage  or  a  reg'la  butla  is  kep ; 
and  as  to  the  poor — just  look  at  them  when  they  come 
crowding  about  the  church-doors  on  the  occasion  of  a 
marriage  or  a  funeral,  clattering  in  clogs  ;  the  men  in  their 
shirt-sleeves  and  wool-combers'  aprons,  the  women  in  mob- 
caps  and  bed-gowns.  They  postively  deserve  that  one 
should  turn  a  mad  cow  in  amongst  them  to  rout  their  rabble- 
ranks — he  !  he  !  What  fun  it  would  be ! ' 

'  There, — you  have  reached  the  climax,'  said  Shirley, 
quietly.  '  You  have  reached  the  climax,'  she  repeated, 
turning  her  glowing  glance  towards  him.  '  You  cannot  go 
beyond  it,  and,'  she  added  with  emphasis,  '  you  shall  not,  in 
my  house.' 

Up  she  rose  :  nobody  could  control  her  now,  for  she 
was  exasperated ;  straight  she  walked  to  her  garden-gates, 
wide  she  flung  them  open. 

'  Walk  through,'  she  said  austerely,  '  and  pretty  quickly, 
and  set  foot  on  this  pavement  no  more.' 

Donne  was  astounded.  He  had  thought  all  the  time  he 
was  showing  himself  off  to  high  advantage,  as  a  lofty-souled 
person  of  the  first  '  ton,'  he  imagined  he  was  producing  a 
crushing  impression.  Had  lie  not  expressed  disdain  of 
everything  in  Yorkshire  ?  What  more  conclusive  proof 


OAKWELL    HAI.L    (fllK    G.VHDKN)    (VlKI.DII  KAn). 


ME.  DONNE'S  EXODUS 

could  be  given  that  he  was  better  than  anything  there  ?  And 
yet  here  was  he  about  to  be  turned  like  a  dog  out  of  a 
Yorkshire  garden !  Where,  under  such  circumstances,  was 
the  '  concatenation  accordingly  ? ' 

'  Kid  me  of  you  instantly — instantly  ! '  reiterated  Shirley 
as  he  lingered. 

'  Madam — a  clergyman !     Turn  out  a  clergyman  ?  ' 

'  Off !  Were  you  an  archbishop :  you  have  proved 
yourself  no  gentleman,  and  must  go.  Quick  ! ' 

She  was  quite  resolved  :  there  was  no  trifling  with  her : 
besides,  Tartar  was  again  rising  ;  he  perceived  symptoms  of 
a  commotion  :  he  manifested  a  disposition  to  join  in  ;  there 
was  evidently  nothing  for  it  but  to  go,  and  Donne  made  his 
exodus  ;  the  heiress  sweeping  him  a  deep  curtsey  as  she 
closed  the  gates  on  him. 

'  How  dare  the  pompous  priest  abuse  his  flock  ?  How 
dare  the  lisping  cockney  revile  Yorkshire  ? '  was  her  sole 
observation  on  the  circumstance,  as  she  returned  to  the 
table. 

Erelong  the  little  party  broke  up :  Miss  Keeldar's  ruffled 
and  darkened  brow,  curled  lip,  and  incensed  eye,  gave  no 
invitation  to  further  social  enjoyment. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHITSUNTIDE 

THE  fund  prospered.  By  dint  of  Miss  Keeldar's  example, 
the  three  rectors'  vigorous  exertions,  and  the  efficient  though 
quiet  aid  of  their  spinster  and  spectacled  lieutenants,  Mary 
Ann  Ainley  and  Margaret  Hall,  a  handsome  sum  was  raised  : 
and  this  being  judiciously  managed,  served  for  the  present 
greatly  to  alleviate  the  distress  of  the  unemployed  poor.  The 
neighbourhood  seemed  to  grow  calmer  :  for  a  fortnight  past 
no  cloth  had  been  destroyed ;  no  outrage  on  mill  or  mansion 
had  been  committed  in  the  three  parishes.  Shirley  was 
sanguine  that  the  evil  she  wished  to  avert  was  almost 
escaped  ;  that  the  threatened  storm  was  passing  over :  with 
the  approach  of  summer  she  felt  certain  that  trade  would 
improve — it  always  did ;  and  then  this  weary  war  could 
not  last  for  ever ;  peace  must  return  one  day  :  with  peace 
what  an  impulse  would  be  given  to  commerce  ! 

Such  was  the  usual  tenor  of  her  observations  to  her 
tenant,  Gerard  Moore,  whenever  she  met  him  where  they 
could  converse,  and  Moore  would  listen  very  quietly — too 
quietly  to  satisfy  her.  She  would  then  by  her  impatient 
glance  demand  something  more  from  him — some  explana- 
tion, or  at  least  some  additional  remark.  Smiling  in  his  way, 
with  that  expression  which  gave  a  remarkable  cast  of  sweet- 
ness to  his  mouth,  while  his  brow  remained  grave,  he  would 
answer  to  the  effect,  that  himself,  too,  trusted  in  the  finite 
nature  of  the  war ;  that  it  was  indeed  on  that  ground  the 
anchor  of  his  hopes  was  fixed  :  thereon  his  speculations 
depended.  '  For  you  are  aware,'  he  would  continue,  '  that 


WHITSUNTIDE  297 

I  now  work  Hollow's  mill  entirely  on  speculation :  I  sell 
nothing ;  there  is  no  market  for  my  goods.     I  manufacture 
for  a  future  day  :  I  nake  myself  ready  to  take  advantage  of 
the  first  opening  that  shall  occur.     Three  months  ago  this 
was  impossible  to  me ;   I  had  exhausted  both  credit  and 
capital :  you  well  know  who  came  to  my  rescue  ;  from  what 
hand  I  received  the  loan  which  saved  me.     It  is  on  the 
strength  of  that  loan  I  am   enabled  to  continue  the  bold 
game  which,  a  while  since,  I  feared  I  should   never  play 
more.     Total  ruin  I  know  will  follow  loss,  and  I  am  aware 
that  gain  is  doubtful ;  but  I  am  quite  cheerful ;  so  long  as  I 
can  be  active,  so  long  as  I  can  strive,  so  long,  in  short,  as 
my  hands  are  not  tied,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  be  depressed. 
One  year,  nay,  but  six  months,  of  the  reign  of  the  olive,  and 
I  am  safe ;  for,  as  you  say,  peace  will  give  an  impulse  to 
commerce.     In  this  you  are  right ;  but  as  to  the  restored 
tranquillity  of  the  neighbourhood — as  to  the  permanent  good 
effect  of  your   charitable   fund — I   doubt.      Eleemosynary 
relief  never  yet  tranquillized  the  working-classes — it  never 
made  them  grateful ;  it  is  not  in  human  nature  that  it  should. 
I  suppose,  were  all  things  ordered  aright,  they  ought  not  to 
be   in  a  position  to  need  that  humiliating  relief ;  and  this 
they  feel :  we  should  feel  it  were  we  so  placed.     Besides,  to 
whom  should  they  be  grateful  ?      To  you — to  the  clergy 
perhaps,   but  not  to  us  mill-owners.     They  hate  us  worse 
than  ever.     Then,  the  disaffected  here  are  in  correspondence 
with  the  disaffected  elsewhere ;  Nottingham  is  one  of  their 
head-quarters,  Manchester  another,   Birmingham   a   third. 
The  subalterns  receive  orders  from  their  chiefs  ;  they  are 
in  a  good  state   of   discipline  :   no  blow  is  struck   without 
mature  deliberation.     In  sultry  weather,  you  have  seen  the 
sky  threaten  thunder  day  by  day,  and  yet  night  after  night 
the  clouds  have  cleared,  and  the  sun  has  set  quietly  ;  but 
the  danger  was  not  gone,  it  was  only  delayed  :  the  long- 
threatening  storm  is  sure  to  break  at  last.     There  is  analogy 
between  the  moral  and  physical  atmosphere.' 

1  Well,  Mr.  Moore  '  (so  these  conferences  always  ended), 


298  SHIRLEY 

4  take  care  of  yourself.  If  you  think  that  I  have  ever  done 
you  any  good,  reward  me  by  promising  to  take  care  of 
yourself.' 

'  I  do :  I  will  take  close  and  watchful  care.  I  wish  to 
live,  not  to  die  :  the  future  opens  like  Eden  before  me  ;  and 
still,  when  I  look  deep  into  the  shades  of  my  paradise,  I  see 
a  vision,  that  I  like  better  than  seraph  or  cherub,  glide  across 
remote  vistas.' 

1  Do  you  ?     Pray,  what  vision  ? ' 

'  I  see ' 

The  maid  came  bustling  in  with  the  tea-things. 

The  early  part  of  that  May,  as  we  have  seen,  was  fine, 
the  middle  was  wet;  but  in  the  last  week,  at  change  of 
moon,  it  cleared  again.  A  fresh  wind  swept  off  the  silver- 
white,  deep-piled  rain-clouds,  bearing  them,  mass  on  mass, 
to  the  eastern  horizon  ;  on  whose  verge  they  dwindled,  and 
behind  whose  rim  they  disappeared,  leaving  the  vault  behind 
all  pure  blue  space,  ready  for  the  reign  of  the  summer  sun. 
That  sun  rose  broad  on  Whitsuntide :  the  gathering  of  the 
schools  was  signalized  by  splendid  weather. 

\Vhit-Tuesday  was  the  great  day,  in  preparation  for 
which  the  two  large  schoolrooms  of  Briarfield,  built  by  the 
present  rector,  chiefly  at  his  own  expense,  were  cleaned  out, 
white- washed,  repainted,  and  decorated  with  flowers  and 
evergreens—  some  from  the  Eectory-garden,  two  cart-loads 
from  Fieldhead,  and  a  wheelbarrowful  from  the  more  stingy 
domain  of  De  Warden,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Wynne,  in 
these  schoolrooms  twenty  tables,  each  calculated  to  accommo- 
date twenty  guests,  were  laid  out,  surrounded  with  benches, 
and  covered  with  white  cloths  :  above  them  were  suspended 
at  least  some  twenty  cages,  containing  as  many  canaries, 
according  to  a  fancy  of  the  district,  specially  cherished  by 
Mr.  Helstone's  clerk,  who  delighted  in  the  piercing  song  of 
these  birds,  and  knew  that  amidst  confusion  of  tongues  they 
always  carolled  loudest.  These  tables,  be  it  understood, 
were  not  spread  for  the  twelve  hundred  scholars  to  be 
assembled  from  the  three  parishes,  but  only  for  the  patrons 


WHITSUNTIDE  299 

and  teachers  of  the  schools :  the  children's  feast  was  to  be 
spread  in  the  open  air.  At  one  o'clock  the  troops  were  to 
come  in ;  at  two  they  were  to  be  marshalled  :  till  four  they 
were  to  parade  the  parish ;  then  came  the  feast,  and  after- 
wards the  meeting,  with  music  and  speechifying  in  the 
church. 

Why  Briarfield  was  chosen  for  the  point  of  rendezvous — 
the  scene  of  the  fete — should  be  explained.  It  was  not 
because  it  was  the  largest  or  most  populous  parish — Whin- 
bury  far  outdid  it  in  that  respect ;  nor  because  it  was  the 
oldest— antique  as  were  the  hoary  Church  and  Kectory, 
Nunnely's  low-roofed  Temple  and  mossy  Parsonage,  buried 
both  in  coeval  oaks,  outstanding  sentinels  of  Nunnwood, 
were  older  still :  it  was  simply  because  Mr.  Helstone  willed 
it  so,  and  Mr.  Helstone's  will  was  stronger  than  that  of 
Boultby  or  Hall ;  the  former  could  not,  the  latter  would  not, 
dispute  a  point  of  precedence  with  their  resolute  and  imperious 
brother  ;  they  let  him  lead  and  rule. 

This  notable  anniversary  had  always  hitherto  been  a 
trying  day  to  Caroline  Helstone,  because  it  dragged  her 
perforce  into  public,  compelling  her  to  face  all  that  was 
wealthy,  respectable,  influential  in  the  neighbourhood ;  in 
whose  presence,  but  for  the  kind  countenance  of  Mr.  Hall, 
she  would  have  appeared  unsupported.  Obliged  to  be 
conspicuous ;  obliged  to  walk  at  the  head  of  her  regiment, 
as  the  Eector's  niece,  and  first  teacher  of  the  first  class ; 
obliged  to  make  tea  at  the  first  table  for  a  mixed  multitude 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  and  to  do  all  this  without  the 
countenance  of  mother,  aunt,  or  other  chaperon — she,  mean- 
time, being  a  nervous  person,  who  mortally  feared  publicity — 
it  will  be  comprehended  that,  under  these  circumstances, 
she  trembled  at  the  approach  of  Whitsuntide. 

But  this  year  Shirley  was  to  be  with  her,  and  that 
changed  the  aspect  of  the  trial  singularly — it  changed  it 
utterly  :  it  was  a  trial  no  longer — it  was  almost  an  enjoy- 
ment. Miss  Keeldar  was  better  in  her  single  self  than  a 
host  of  ordinary  friends.  Quite  self-possessed,  and  always 


300  SHIRLEY 

spirited  and  easy;  conscious  of  her  social  importance,  yet 
never  presuming  upon  it,  it  would  be  enough  to  give  one 
courage  only  to  look  at  her.  The  only  fear  was,  lest  the 
heiress  should  not  be  punctual  to  tryst :  she  often  had  a 
careless  way  of  lingering  behind  time,  and  Caroline  knew 
her  uncle  would  not  wait  a  second  for  any  one  :  at  the 
moment  of  the  church-clock  tolling  two,  the  bells  would 
clash  out  and  the  march  begin.  She  must  look  after 
Shirley,  then,  in  this  matter,  or  her  expected  companion 
would  fail  her. 

Whit-Tuesday  saw  her  rise  almost  with  the  sun.  She, 
Fanny,  and  Eliza  were  busy  the  whole  morning  arranging 
the  Rectory-parlours  in  first-rate  company  order,  and  setting 
out  a  collation  of  cooling  refreshments — wine,  fruit,  cakes — 
on  the  dining-room  side-board.  Then  she  had  to  dress  in 
her  freshest  and  fairest  attire  of  white  muslin  ;  the  perfect 
fineness  of  the  day  and  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion 
warranted,  and  even  exacted,  such  costume.  Her  new  sash — a 
birthday-present  from  Margaret  Hall,  which  she  had  reason 
to  believe  Cyril  himself  had  bought,  and  in  return  for  which 
she  had  indeed  given  him  a  set  of  cambric-bands  in  a 
handsome  case — was  tied  by  the  dexterous  fingers  of  Fanny, 
who  took  no  little  pleasure  in  arraying  her  fair  young  mistress 
for  the  occasion  ;  her  simple  bonnet  had  been  trimmed  to 
correspond  with  her  sash  ;  her  pretty  but  inexpensive  scarf  of 
white  crape  suited  her  dress.  When  ready,  she  formed  a 
picture,  not  bright  enough  to  dazzle,  but  fair  enough  to 
interest;  not  brilliantly  striking,  but  very  delicately  pleasing; 
a  picture  in  which  sweetness  of  tint,  purity  of  air,  and  grace 
of  mien,  atoned  for  the  absence  of  rich  colouring  and  mag- 
nificent contour.  What  her  brown  eye  and  clear  forehead 
showed  of  her  mind,  was  in  keeping  with  her  dress  and  face 
-  modest,  gentle,  and,  though  pensive,  harmonious.  It 
appeared  that  neither  lamb  nor  dove  need  fear  her,  but 
would  welcome  rather,  in  her  look  of  simplicity  and  softness, 
a  sympathy  with  their  own  natures,  or  with  the  natures  we 
ascribe  to  them. 


WHITSUNTIDE  301 

After  all,  she  was  an  imperfect,  faulty  human  being  :  fair 
enough  of  form,  hue,  and  array;  but,  as  Cyril  Hall  said, 
neither  so  good  nor  so  great  as  the  withered  Miss  Ainley. 
now  putting  on  her  best  black  gown  and  Quaker-drab  shawl 
and  bonnet  in  her  own  narrow  cottage-chamber. 

Away  Caroline  went,  across  some  very  sequestered  fields 
and  through  some  quite  hidden  lanes,  to  Pieldhead.  She 
glided  quickly  under  the  green  hedges  and  across  the 
greener  leas.  There  was  no  dust — no  moisture — to  soil  the 
hem  of  her  stainless  garment,  or  to  damp  her  slender 
sandal :  after  the  late  rains  all  was  clean,  and  under  the 
present  glowing  sun  all  was  dry :  she  walked  fearlessly 
then,  on  daisy  and  turf,  and  through  thick  plantations ;  she 
reached  Fieldhead  and  penetrated  to  Miss  Keeldar's  dressing- 
room. 

It  was  well  she  had  come,  or  Shirley  would  have  been 
too  late.  Instead  of  making  ready  with  all  speed,  she  lay 
stretched  on  a  couch,  absorbed  in  reading  :  Mrs.  Pryor  stood 
near,  vainly  urging  her  to  rise  and  dress.  Caroline  wasted 
no  words  :  she  immediately  took  the  book  from  her,  and, 
with  her  own  hands,  commenced  the  business  of  disrobing 
and  rerobing  her.  Shirley,  indolent  with  the  heat,  and  gay 
with  her  youth  and  pleasurable  nature,  wanted  to  talk, 
laugh,  and  linger;  but  Caroline,  intent  on  being  in  time, 
persevered  in  dressing  her  as  fast  as  fingers  could  fasten 
strings  or  insert  pins.  At  length,  as  she  united  a  final  row  of 
hooks  and  eyes,  she  found  leisure  to  chide  her,  saying,  she 
was  very  naughty  to  be  so  unpunctual ;  that  she  looked  even 
now  the  picture  of  incorrigible  carelessness  :  and  so  Shirley 
did — but  a  very  lovely  picture  of  that  tiresome  quality. 

She  presented  quite  a  contrast  to  Caroline  :  there  was 
style  in  every  fold  of  her  dress  and  every  line  of  her  figure  : 
the  rich  silk  suited  her  better  than  a  simpler  costume  ;  the 
deep-embroidered  scarf  became  her  :  she  wore  it  negligently, 
but  gracefully  ;  the  wreath  on  her  bonnet  crowned  her  well : 
the  attention  to  fashion,  the  tasteful  appliance  of  ornament 
in  each  portion  oi  her  dress,  were  quite  in  place  with  her  ; 


302  SHIRLEY 

all  this  suited  her,  like  the  frank  light  in  her  eyes,  the 
rallying  smile  about  her  lips,  like  her  shaft-straight  carriage 
and  lightsome  step.  Caroline  took  her  hand  when  she  was 
dressed,  hurried  her  down-stairs,  out  of  doors,  and  thus  they 
sped  through  the  fields,  laughing  as  they  went,  and  looking 
very  much  like  a  snow-white  dove  and  gem-tinted  bird-of- 
paradise  joined  in  social  flight. 

Thanks  to  Miss  Helstone's  promptitude,  they  arrived  in 
good  time.  While  yet  trees  hid  the  church,  they  heard  the 
bell  tolling  a  measured  but  urgent  summons  for  all  to 
assemble ;  the  trooping  in  of  numbers,  the  trampling  of 
many  steps,  and  murmuring  of  many  voices  were  likewise 
audible.  From  a  rising-ground  they  presently  saw,  on 
the  Whinbury-road,  the  Whinbury-school  approaching :  it 
numbered  five  hundred  souls.  The  Rector  and  Curate, 
Boultby  and  Donne,  headed  it :  the  former,  looming  large  in 
full  canonicals,  walking  as  became  a  beneficed  priest,  under 
the  canopy  of  a  shovel-hat,  with  the  dignity  of  an  ample  cor- 
poration, the  embellishment  of  the  squarest  and  vastest  of  black 
coats,  and  the  support  of  the  stoutest  of  gold-headed  canes. 
As  the  Doctor  walked,  he  now  and  then  slightly  flourished 
his  cane,  and  inclined  his  shovel-hat  with  a  dogmatical  wag 
towards  his  aide-de-camp.  That  aide-de-camp — Donne,  to  wit 
— narrow  as  the  line  of  his  shape  was  compared  to  the  broad 
bulk  of  his  principal,  contrived,  notwithstanding,  to  look 
every  inch  a  curate  :  all  about  him  was  pragmatical  and  self- 
complacent,  from  his  turned-up  nose  and  elevated  chin  to  his 
clerical  black  gaiters,  his  somewhat  short,  strapless  trousers, 
and  his  square-toed  shoes. 

Walk  on,  Mr.  Donne !  You  have  undergone  scrutiny. 
You  think  you  look  well — whether  the  white  and  purple 
figures  watching  you  from  yonder  hill  think  so,  is  another 
question. 

These  figures  come  running  down  when  the  regiment  has 
marched  by:  the  churchyard  is  full  of  children  and  teachers, 
all  in  their  very  best  holiday  attire  :  and—  distressed  as  is 
the  district,  bud  as  are  the  time-,--  it  is  wonderful  to  see  how 


WHITSUNTIDE  303 

respectably — how  handsomely  even — they  have  contrived 
to  clothe  themselves.  That  British  love  of  decency  will 
work  miracles  :  the  poverty  which  reduces  an  Irish  girl  to 
rags  is  impotent  to  rob  the  English  girl  of  the  neat  wardrobe 
she  knows  necessary  to  her  self-respect.  Besides,  the  lady 
of  the  manor — that  Shirley,  now  gazing  with  pleasure  on 
this  well-dressed  and  happy-looking  crowd — has  reaUy  done 
them  good :  her  seasonable  bounty  consoled  many  a  poor 
family  against  the  coming  holiday,  and  supplied  many  a 
child  with  a  new  frock  or  bonnet  for  the  occasion ;  she 
knows  it,  and  is  elate  with  the  consciousness :  glad  that  her 
money,  example,  and  influence  have  really — substantially — 
benefited  those  around  her.  She  cannot  be  charitable  like 
Miss  Ainley — it  is  not  in  her  nature  :  it  relieves  her  to  feel 
that'  there  is  another  way  of  being  charitable,  practicable  for 
other  characters,  and  under  other  circumstances. 

Caroline,  too,  is  pleased  ;  for  she  also  has  done  good  in  her 
small  way ;  robbed  herself  of  more  than  one  dress,  ribbon, 
or  collar  she  could  ill  spare,  to  aid  in  fitting  out  the  scholars 
of  her  class ;  and  as  she  could  not  give  money,  she  has 
followed  Miss  Ainley's  example,  in  giving  her  time  and  her 
industry  to  sew  for  the  children. 

Not  only  is  the  churchyard  full,  but  the  Kectory-garden 
is  also  thronged  :  pairs  and  parties  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
are  seen  walking  amongst  the  waving  lilacs  and  laburnums. 
The  house  also  is  occupied :  at  the  wide-open  parlour- 
windows  gay  groups  are  standing.  These  are  the  patrons  and 
teachers,  who  are  to  swell  the  procession.  In  the  parson's 
croft,  behind  the  Eectory,  are  the  musicians  of  the  three  parish 
bands,  with  their  instruments.  Fanny  and  Eliza,  in  the 
smartest  of  caps  and  gowns,  and  the  whitest  of  aprons,  move 
amongst  them,  serving  out  quarts  of  ale  ;  whereof  a  stock 
was  brewed  very  sound  and  strong  some  weeks  since,  by  the 
Rector's  orders,  and  under  his  special  superintendence. 
Whatever  he  had  a  hand  in,  must  be  managed  handsomely  : 
'shabby  doings,'  of  any  description,  were  not  endured  under 
his  sanction  :  from  the  erection  of  a  public  building,  a  church, 


304  SHIBLEY 

school,  or  court-house,  to  the  cooking  of  a  dinner,  he  still 
advocated  the  lordly,  liberal,  and  effective.  Miss  Keeldar 
was  like  him  in  this  respect,  and  they  mutually  approved 
each  other's  arrangements. 

Caroline  and  Shirley  were  soon  in  the  midst  of  the 
company  ;  the  former  met  them  very  easily  for  her  :  instead 
of  sitting  down  in  a  retired  corner,  or  stealing  away  to  her 
own  room  till  the  procession  should  be  marshalled,  according 
to  her  wont,  she  moved  through  the  three  parlours,  con- 
versed and  smiled,  absolutely  spoke  once  or  twice  ere  she 
was  spoken  to,  and,  in  short,  seemed  a  new  creature.  It  was 
Shirley's  presence  which  thus  transformed  her  :  the  view  of 
Miss  Keeldar's  air  and  manner  did  her  a  world  of  good. 
Shirley  had  no  fear  of  her  kind  ;  no  tendency  to  shrink  from, 
to  avoid  it.  All  human  beings,  men,  women,  or  children, 
whom  low  breeding  or  coarse  presumption  did  not  render 
positively  offensive,  were  welcome  enough  to  her:  some 
much  more  so  than  others,  of  course  ;  but,  generally  speak- 
ing, till  a  man  had  indisputably  proved  himself  bad  and  a 
nuisance,  Shirley  was  willing  to  think  him  good  and  an 
acquisition,  and  to  treat  him  accordingly.  This  disposition 
made  her  a  general  favourite,  for  it  robbed  her  very  raillery 
of  its  sting,  and  gave  her  serious  or  smiling  conversation  a 
happy  charm  :  nor  did  it  diminish  the  value  of  her  intimate 
friendship,  which  was  a  distinct  thing  from  this  social 
benevolence,  depending,  indeed,  on  quite  a  different  part  of 
her  character.  Miss  Helstone  was  the  choice  of  her  affec- 
tion and  intellect ;  the  Misses  Pearson,  Sykes,  Wynne,  &c. 
&c.,  only  the  profilers  by  her  good-nature  and  vivacity. 

Donne  happened  to  come  into  the  drawing-room  while 
Shirley,  sitting  on  the  sofa,  formed  the  centre  of  a  tolerably 
wide  circle.  She  had  already  forgotten  her  exasperation 
against  him,  and  she  bowed  and  smiled  good-humouredly. 
The  disposition  of  the  man  was  then  seen.  He  knew  neither 
how  to  decline  the  advance  with  dignity,  as  one  whose  just 
pride  has  been  wounded,  nor  how  to  meet  it  with  frankness, 
as  one  who  is  glad  to  forget  and  forgive ;  his  punishment 


WHITSUNTIDE  305 

had  impressed  him  with  no  sense  of  shame,  and  he  did  not 
experience  that  feeling  on  encountering  his  chastiser :  he 
was  not  vigorous  enough  in  evil  to  be  actively  malignant — 
he  merely  passed  by  sheepishly  with  a  rated,  scowling 
look.  Nothing  could  ever  again  reconcile  him  to  his  enemy ; 
while  no  passion  of  resentment,  for  even  sharper  and 
more  ignominious  inflictions,  could  his  lymphatic  nature 
know. 

'  He  was  not  worth  a  scene  !  '  said  Shirley  to  Caroline. 
'  What  a  fool  I  was !  To  revenge  on  poor  Donne  his  silly 
spite  at  Yorkshire,  is  something  like  crushing  a  gnat  for 
attacking  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros.  Had  I  been  a  gentleman, 
I  believe  I  should  have  helped  him  off  the  premises  by  dint 
of  physical  force :  I  am  glad  now  I  only  employed  the  moral 
weapon.  But  he  must  come  near  me  no  more  :  I  don't  like 
him  :  he  irritates  me :  there  is  not  even  amusement  to  be  had 
out  of  him  :  Malone  is  better  sport." 

It  seemed  as  if  Malone  wished  to  justify  the  preference ; 
for  the  words  were  scarcely  out  of  the  speaker's  mouth,  when 
Peter  Augustus  came  up,  all  in  '  grande  tenue,'  gloved  and 
scented,  with  his  hair  oiled  and  brushed  to  perfection,  and 
bearing  in  one  hand  a  huge  bunch  of  cabbage-roses,  five  or 
six  in  full  blow  :  these  he  presented  to  the  heiress  with  a 
grace  to  which  the  most  cunning  pencil  could  do  but  defec- 
tive justice.  And  who,  after  this,  could  dare  to  say  that 
Peter  was  not  a  lady's  man  ?  he  had  gathered  and  he  had 
given  flowers  :  he  had  offered  a  sentimental — a  poetic  tribute 
at  the  shrine  of  Love  or  Mammon.  Hercules  holding  the 
distaff  was  but  a  faint  type  of  Peter  bearing  the  roses.  He 
must  have  thought  this  himself,  for  he  seemed  amazed  at 
what  he  had  done  :  he  backed  without  a  word ;  he  was  going 
away  with  a  husky  chuckle  of  self-felicitation ;  then  he  be- 
thought himself  to  stop  and  turn,  to  ascertain  by  ocular 
testimony  that  he  really  had  presented  a  bouquet :  yes — 
there  were  the  six  red  cabbages  on  the  purple  satin  lap,  a 
very  white  hand,  with  some  gold  rings  on  the  fingers, 
slightly  holding  them  together,  and  streaming  ringlets,  half 


306  SHIRLEY 

hiding  a  laughing  face,  drooped  over  them  :  only  7iaZ/-hiding : 
Peter  saw  the  laugh — it  was  unmistakable — he  was  made  a 
joke  of —  his  gallantry,  his  chivalry  were  the  subject  of  a  jest 
for  a  petticoat — for  two  petticoats — Miss  Helstone  too  was 
smiling.  Moreover,  he  felt  he  was  seen  through,  and  Peter 
grew  black  as  a  thunder-cloud.  When  Shirley  looked  up,  a 
fell  eye  was  fastened  on  her :  Malone,  at  least,  had  energy 
enough  in  hate  :  she  saw  it  in  his  glance. 

'Peter  is  worth  a  scene,  and  shall  have  it,  if  he  likes,  one 
day,'  she  whispered  to  her  friend. 

And  now — solemn  and  sombre  as  to  their  colour,  though 
bland  enough  as  to  their  faces — appeared  at  the  dining-room 
door  the  three  rectors  :  they  had  hitherto  been  busy  in  the 
church,  and  were  now  coming  to  take  some  little  refreshment 
for  the  body,  ere  the  march  commenced.  The  large 
morocco-covered  easy-chair  had  been  left  vacant  for  Dr. 
Boultby ;  he  was  put  into  it,  and  Caroline,  obeying  the  in- 
stigations of  Shirley,  who  told  her  now  was  the  time  to  play 
the  hostess,  hastened  to  hand  to  her  uncle's  vast,  revered, 
and,  on  the  whole,  worthy  friend,  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  plate 
of  macaroons.  Boultby's  churchwardens,  patrons  of  the 
Sunday-school  both,  as  he  insisted  on  their  being,  were 
already  beside  him ;  Mrs.  Sykes  and  the  other  ladies  of  his 
congregation  were  on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  left,  express- 
ing their  hopes  that  he  was  not  fatigued,  their  fears  that  the 
day  would  be  too  warm  for  him.  Mrs.  Boultby,  who  held 
an  opinion  that  when  her  lord  dropped  to  sleep  after  a  good 
dinner  his  face  became  as  the  face  of  an  angel,  was  bending 
over  him,  tenderly  wiping  some  perspiration,  real  or 
imaginary,  from  his  brow  :  Boultby,  in  short,  was  in  his 
glory,  and  in  a  round  sound  '  voix  de  poitrine,'  he  I'umbled 
out  thanks  for  attentions,  and  assurances  of  his  tolerable 
health.  Of  Caroline  he  took  no  manner  of  notice  as  she 
came  near,  save  to  accept  what  she  offered  :  he  did  not  see 
her,  he  never  did  see  her  :  he  hardly  knew  that  such  a  person 
existed.  He  saw  the  macaroons,  however,  and  being  fond 
of  sweets,  possessed  himself  of  a  small  handful  thereof. 


WHITSUNTIDE  307 

The  wine,  Mrs.  Boultby  insisted  on  mingling  with  hot  water, 
and  qualifying  with  sugar  and  nutmeg. 

Mr.  Hall  stood  near  an  open  window,  breathing  the 
fresh  air  and  scent  of  flowers,  and  talking  like  a  brother  to 
Miss  Ainley.  To  him  Caroline  turned  her  attention  with 
pleasure.  '  What  should  she  bring  him  ?  He  must  not 
help  himself— he  must  be  served  by  her; '  and  she  provided 
herself  with  a  little  salver,  that  she  might  offer  him  variety. 
Margaret  Hall  joined  them  ;  so  did  Miss  Keeldar  :  the  four 
ladies  stood  round  their  favourite  pastor :  they  also  had  an 
idea  that  they  looked  on  the  face  of  an  earthly  angel :  Cyril 
Hall  was  their  pope,  infallible  to  them  as  Dr.  Thomas 
Boultby  to  his  admirers.  A  throng,  too,  enclosed  the 
Rector  of  Briarfield :  twenty  or  more  pressed  round  him ; 
and  no  parson  was  ever  more  potent  in  a  circle  than  old 
Helstone.  The  curates  herding  together  after  their  manner, 
made  a  constellation  of  three  lesser  planets :  divers  young 
ladies  watched  them  afar  off,  but  ventured  not  nigh. 

Mr.  Helstone  produced  his  watch.  '  Ten  minutes  to  two,' 
he  announced  aloud.  '  Time  for  all  to  fall  into  line.  Come.' 
He  seized  his  shovel-hat  and  marched  away ;  all  rose  and 
followed  en  masse. 

The  twelve  hundred  children  were  drawn  up  in  three 
bodies  of  four  hundred  souls  each  :  in  the  rear  of  each  regi- 
ment was  stationed  a  band  ;  between  every  twenty  there 
was  an  interval,  wherein  Helstone  posted  the  teachers  in 
pairs  :  to  the  van  of  the  armies  he  summoned  :— '  Grace 
Boultby  and  Mary  Sykes  lead  out  Whinbury.' 

'  Margaret  Hall  and  Mary  Ann  Ainley  conduct  Nunnely.' 

4  Caroline  Ht-lstone  and  Shirley  Keeldar  head  Briarfield.' 

Then  again  he  gave  command  : — '  Mr.  Donne  to  Whin- 
bury  ;  Mr.  Sweeting  to  Nunnely ;  Mr.  Malone  to  Briar- 
field.' 

And  these  gentlemen  stepped  up  before  the  lady-generals. 

The  rectors  passed  to  the  full  front  -  the  parish  clerks 
fell  to  the  extreme  rear  ;  Helstone  lifted  his  shovel-hat ;  in 
an  instant  out  clashed  the  eight  bells  in  the  tower,  loud 


308  SHIRLEY 

swelled  the  sounding  bands,  flute  spoke  and  clarion  answered, 
deep  rolled  the  drums,  and  away  they  marched. 

The  broad  white  road  unrolled  before  the  long  procession, 
the  sun  and  sky  surveyed  it  cloudless,  the  wind  tossed  the 
tree-boughs  above  it,  and  the  twelve  hundred  children,  and 
one  hundred  and  forty  adults,  of  which  it  was  composed, 
trod  on  in  time  and  tune,  with  gay  faces  and  glad  hearts. 
It  was  a  joyous  scene,  and  a  scene  to  do  good :  it  was  a  day 
of  happiness  for  rich  and  poor :  the  work,  first  of  God,  and 
then  of  the  clergy.  Let  England's  priests  have  their  due : 
they  are  a  faulty  set  in  some  respects,  being  only  of  common 
flesh  and  blood,  like  us  all ;  but  the  land  would  be  badly  off 
without  them  :  Britain  would  miss  her  church,  if  that  church 
fell.  God  save  it  t  God  also  reform  it ! 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

THE    SCHOOL-FEAST 

NOT  on  combat  bent,  nor  of  foemen  in  search,  was  this 
priest-led  and  woman-officered  company :  yet  their  music 
played  martial  tunes,  and — to  judge  by  the  eyes  and  carriage 
of  some,  Miss  Keeldar,  for  instance — these  sounds  awoke,  if 
not  a  martial,  yet  a  longing  spirit.  Old  Helstone,  turning  by 
chance,  looked  into  her  face,  and  he  laughed,  and  she  laughed 
at  him. 

'  There  is  no  battle  in  prospect,'  he  said ;  '  our  country 
does  not  want  us  to  fight  for  it :  no  foe  or  tyrant  is 
questioning  or  threatening  our  liberty :  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done :  we  are  only  taking  a  walk.  Keep  your  hand  on 
the  reins,  captain,  and  slack  the  fire  of  that  spirit :  it  is  not 
wanted ;  the  more's  the  pity.' 

'  Take  your  own  advice,  Doctor,'  was  Shirley's  response. 
To  Caroline,  she  murmured,  '  I'll  borrow  of  imagination 
what  reality  will  not  give  me.  We  are  not  soldiers — blood- 
shed is  not  my  desire ;  or  if  we  are,  we  are  soldiers  of  the 
Cross.  Time  has  rolled  back  some  hundreds  of  years,  and 
we  are  bound  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Palestine.  But  no, — that 
is  too  visionary.  I  need  a  sterner  dream  :  we  are  Lowlanders 
of  Scotland,  following  a  covenanting  captain  up  into  the 
hills  to  hold  a  meeting  out  of  the  reach  of  persecuting 
troopers.  We  know  that  battle  may  follow  prayer  ;  and,  as 
we  believe  that  in  the  worst  issue  of  battle,  heaven  must  be 
our  reward,  we  are  ready  and  willing  to  redden  the  peat-moss 
with  our  blood.  That  music  stirs  my  soul ;  it  wakens  all 
my  life  ;  it  makes  my  heart  beat :  not  with  its  temperate 


310  SHIRLEY 

daily  pulse,  but  with  a  new,  thrilling  vigour.  I  almost  long 
for  danger;  for  a  faith — a  land — or,  at  least,  a  lover  to 
defend.' 

1  Look  Shirley  ! '  interrupted  Caroline.  '  What  is  that 
red  speck  above  Stilbro'  Brow  ?  You  have  keener  sight  than 
I ;  just  turn  your  eagle  eye  to  it.' 

Miss  Keeldar  looked. 

'  I  see,'  she  said  :  then  added,  presently,  '  There  is  a  line 
of  red.  They  are  soldiers — cavalry  soldiers,'  she  subjoined 
quickly :  '  they  ride  fast :  there  are  six  of  them  :  they  will 
pass  us  :  no — they  have  turned  off  to  the  right :  they  saw 
our  procession,  and  avoid  it  by  making  a  circuit.  Where 
are  they  going  ?  ' 

'  Perhaps  they  are  only  exercising  their  horses.' 

'  Perhaps  so.     We  see  them  no  more  now.' 

Mr.  Helstone  here  spoke. 

'  WTe  shall  pass  through  Boyd-lane,  to  reach  Nunnely 
Common  by  a  short  cut,'  said  he. 

And  into  the  straits  of  Eoyd-lane  they  accordingly  defiled. 
It  was  very  narrow, — so  narrow  that  only  two  could  walk 
abreast  without  falling  into  the  ditch  which  ran  along  each 
side.  They  had  gained  the  middle  of  it,  when  excitement 
became  obvious  in  the  clerical  commanders :  Boultby's  spec- 
tacles and  Helstone's  Eehoboam  were  agitated  :  the  curates 
nudged  each  other :  Mr.  Hall  turned  to  the  ladies  and 
smiled. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ? '  was  the  demand. 

He  pointed  with  his  staff  to  the  end  of  the  lane  before 
them.  Lo  and  behold  !  another, — an  opposition  procession 
was  there  entering,  headed  also  by  men  in  black,  and 
followed  also,  as  they  could  now  hear,  by  music. 

'  Is  it  our  double  ?  '  asked  Shirley :  '  our  manifold  wraith  ? 
Here  is  a  card  turned  up.' 

'  If  you  wanted  a  battle,  you  are  likely  to  get  one, — at 
least  of  looks,'  whispered  Caroline,  laughing. 

'  They  shall  not  pass  us  !  '  cried  the  curates,  unanimously  : 
'  we'll  not  give  way  !  ' 


THE  SCHOOL-FEAST  311 

1  Give  way !  '  retorted  Helstone,  sternly,  turning  round ; 
'  who  talks  of  giving  way  ?  You,  boys,  mind  what  you  are 
about :  the  ladies,  I  know,  will  be  firm ;  I  can  trust  them. 
There  is  not  a  churchwoman  here  but  will  stand  her  ground 
against  these  folks,  for  the  honour  of  the  Establishment. 
What  does  Miss  Keeldar  say?  ' 

1  She  asks  what  is  it  ? ' 

'The  Dissenting  and  Methodist  schools,  the  Baptists, 
Independents,  and  Wesleyans,  joined  in  unholy  alliance, 
and  turning  purposely  into  this  lane  with  the  intention  of 
obstructing  our  march  and  driving  us  back.' 

'  Bad  manners  !  '  said  Shirley  ;  '  and  I  hate  bad  manners. 
Of  course,  they  must  have  a  lesson.' 

'  A  lesson  in  politeness,'  suggested  Mr.  Hall,  who  was 
ever  for  peace  :  '  not  an  example  of  rudeness.' 

Old  Helstone  moved  on.  Quickening  his  step,  he  marched 
some  yards  in  advance  of  his  company.  He  had  nearly 
reached  the  other  sable  leaders,  when  he  who  appeared  to 
act  as  the  hostile  commander-in-chief — a  large,  greasy  man, 
with  black  hair  combed  flat  on  his  forehead — called  a  halt. 
The  procession  paused ;  he  drew  forth  a  hymn-book,  gave 
out  a  verse,  set  a  tune,  and  they  all  struck  up  the  most 
dolorous  of  canticles. 

Helstone  signed  to  his  bands  :  they  clashed  out  with 
all  the  power  of  brass.  He  desired  them  to  play  '  Eule, 
Britannia,'  and  ordered  the  children  to  join  in  vocally,  which 
they  did  with  enthusiastic  spirit.  The  enemy  was  sung  and 
stormed  down  ;  his  psalm  quelled  :  as  far  as  noise  went, 
he  was  conquered. 

'  Now,  follow  me  ! '  exclaimed  Helstone  ;  '  not  at  a  run, 
but  at  a  firm,  smart  pace.  Be  steady,  every  child  and 
woman  of  you  : — keep  together : — hold  on  by  each  other's 
skirts,  if  necessary.' 

And  he  strode  on  with  such  a  determined  and  deliberate 
gait,  and  was,  besides,  so  well  seconded  by  his  scholars  and 
teachers — who  did  exactly  as  he  told  them,  neither  running 
nor  faltering,  but  marching  with  cool,  solid  impetus;  the 


312  SHIRLEY 

curates,  too,  being  compelled  to  do  the  same,  as  they  were 
between  two  fires,— Helstone  and  Miss  Keeldar,  both  of 
whom  watched  any  deviation  with  lynx-eyed  vigilance,  and 
were  ready,  the  one  with  his  cane,  the  other  with  her 
parasol,  to  rebuke  the  slightest  breach  of  orders,  the  least 
independent  or  irregular  demonstration, — that  the  body  of 
Dissenters  were  first  amazed,  then  alarmed,  then  borne 
down  and  pressed  back,  and  at  last  forced  to  turn  tail  and 
leave  the  outlet  from  Eoyd-lane  free.  Boultby  suffered  in 
the  onslaught,  but  Helstone  and  Malone,  between  them, 
held  him  up,  and  brought  him  through  the  business,  whole 
in  limb,  though  sorely  tried  in  wind. 

The  fat  Dissenter  who  had  given  out  the  hymn  was  left 
sitting  in  the  ditch.  He  was  a  spirit-merchant  by  trade, 
a  leader  of  the  Nonconformists,  and,  it  was  said,  drank 
more  water  in  that  one  afternoon  than  he  had  swallowed 
for  a  twelvemonth  before.  Mr.  Hall  had  taken  care  of 
Caroline,  and  Caroline  of  him  :  he  and  Miss  Ainley  made 
their  own  quiet  comments  to  each  other  afterwards  on  the 
incident.  Miss  Keeldar  and  Mr.  Helstone  shook  hands 
heartily  when  they  had  fairly  got  the  whole  party  through 
the  lane.  The  curates  began  to  exult,  but  Mr.  Helstone 
presently  put  the  curb  on  their  innocent  spirits  :  he  remarked 
that  they  never  had  sense  to  know  what  to  say,  and  had 
better  hold  their  tongues  :  and  he  reminded  them  that  the 
business  was  none  of  their  managing. 

About  half-past  three  the  procession  turned  back,  and 
at  four  once  more  regained  the  starting-place.  Long  lines 
of  benches  were  arranged  in  the  close-shorn  fields  round 
the  school :  there  the  children  were  seated,  and  huge  baskets, 
covered  up  with  white  cloths,  and  great  smoking  tin  vessels, 
were  brought  out.  Ere  the  distribution  of  good  things 
commenced,  a  brief  grace  was  pronounced  by  Mr.  Hall,  and 
sung  by  the  children  :  their  young  voices  sounded  melodious, 
even  touching,  in  the  open  air.  Large  currant  buns,  and 
hot,  well-swreetened  tea,  were  then  administered  in  the 
proper  spidt  of  liberality  ;  no  stinting  was  permitted  on  this 


THE  SCHOOL-FEAST  313 

day,  at  least ;  the  rule  for  each  child's  allowance  being  that 
it  was  to  have  about  twice  as  much  as  it  could  possibly  eat, 
thus  leaving  a  reserve  to  be  carried  home  for  such  as  age, 
sickness,  or  other  impediment,  prevented  from  coming  to 
the  feast.  Buns  and  beer  circulated,  meantime,  amongst 
the  musicians  and  church -singers  :  afterwards  the  benches 
were  removed,  and  they  were  left  to  unbend  their  spirits  in 
licensed  play. 

A  bell  summoned  the  teachers,  patrons,  and  patronesses 
to  the  schoolroom  ;  Miss  Keeldar,  Miss  Helstone,  and  many 
other  ladies  were  already  there,  glancing  over  the  arrange- 
ment of  their  separate  trays  and  tables.  Most  of  the  female 
servants  of  the  neighbourhood,  together  with  the  clerks',  the 
singers',  and  the  musicians'  wives,  had  been  pressed  into  the 
service  of  the  day  as  waiters  :  each  vied  with  the  other  in 
smartness  and  daintiness  of  dress,  and  many  handsome 
forms  were  seen  amongst  the  younger  ones.  About  half 
a  score  were  cutting  bread-and-butter ;  another  half-score 
supplying  hot  water,  brought  from  the  coppers  of  the  Rector's 
kitchen.  The  profusion  of  flowers  and  evergreens  decorating 
the  white  walls,  the  show  of  silver  teapots  and  bright 
porcelain  on  the  tables,  the  active  figures,  blithe  faces,  gay 
dresses,  flitting  about  everywhere,  formed  altogether  a 
refreshing  and  lively  spectacle.  Everybody  talked,  not  very 
loudly,  but  merrily,  and  the  canary  birds  sang  shrill  in 
their  high-hung  cages. 

Caroline,  as  the  Rector's  niece,  took  her  place  at  one  of 
the  first  three  tables ;  Mrs.  Boultby  and  Margaret  Hall 
officiated  at  the  others.  At  these  tables  the  e"lite  of  the  com- 
pany were  to  be  entertained  ;  strict  rules  of  equality  not  being 
more  in  fashion  at  Briarfield  than  elsewhere.  Miss  Hel- 
stone removed  her  bonnet  and  scarf,  that  she  might  be 
less  oppressed  with  the  heat ;  her  long  curls,  falling  on  her 
neck,  served  almost  in  place  of  a  veil,  and  for  the  rest,  her 
muslin  dress  was  fashioned  modestly  as  a  nun's  robe 
enabling  her  thus  to  dispense  with  the  encumbrance  of  a 
shawl. 


3U  SHIELEY 

The  room  was  filling  :  Mr.  Hall  had  taken  his  post  beside 
Caroline,  who  now,  as  she  re-arranged  the  cups  and  spoons 
before  her,  whispered  to  him  in  a  low  voice  remarks  on  the 
events  of  the  day.  He  looked  a  little  grave  about  what  had 
taken  place  in  Koyd-lane,  and  she  tried  to  smile  him  out  of 
his  seriousness.  Miss  Keeldar  sat  near;  for  a  wonder, 
neither  laughing  nor  talking  ;  on  the  contrary,  very  still,  and 
gazing  round  her  vigilantly :  she  seemed  afraid  lest  some 
intruder  should  take  a  seat  she  apparently  wished  to 
reserve  next  her  own  :  ever  and  anon  she  spread  her  satin 
dress  over  an  undue  portion  of  the  bench,  or  laid  her  gloves 
or  her  embroidered  handkerchief  upon  it.  Caroline  noticed 
this  manege  at  last,  and  asked  her  what  friend  she  expected. 
Shirley  bent  towards  her,  almost  touched  her  ear  with  her 
rosy  lips,  and  whispered  with  a  musical  softness  that  often 
characterized  her  tones  when  what  she  said  tended  even 
remotely  to  stir  some  sweet  secret  source  of  feeling  in  her 
heart : — '  I  expect  Mr.  Moore  :  I  saw  him  last  night,  and  I 
made  him  promise  to  come  with  his  sister,  and  to  sit  at  our 
table :  he  won't  fail  me,  I  feel  certain,  but  I  apprehend  his 
coming  too  late,  and  being  separated  from  us.  Here  is  a 
fresh  batch  arriving ;  every  place  will  be  taken  :  provoking  ! ' 

In  fact  Mr.  Wynne  the  magistrate,  his  wife,  his  son,  and 
his  two  daughters,  now  entered  in  high  state.  They  were 
Briariield  gentry :  of  course  their  place  was  at  the  first 
table,  and  being  conducted  hither,  they  filled  up  the  whole 
remaining  space.  For  Miss  Keeldar's  comfort,  Mr.  Sam 
Wynne  inducted  himself  into  the  very  vacancy  she  had 
kept  for  Moore,  planting  himself  solidly  on  her  gown,  her 
gloves,  and  her  handkerchief.  Mr.  Sam  was  one  of  the 
objects  of  her  aversion  :  and  the  more  so  because  he  showed 
serious  symptoms  of  an  aim  at  her  hand.  The  old  gentle- 
man, too,  had  publicly  declared  that  the  Fieldhead  estate 
and  the  De  Walden  estate  were  delightfully  contagious — a 
malapropism  which  rumour  had  not  failed  to  repeat  to 
Shirley. 

Caroline's  ears  yet  ruug  with  that  thrilling  whisper,  '  I 


THE   SCHOOL-FEAST  315 

expect  Mr.  Moore,'  her  heart  yet  beat  and  her  cheek  yet 
glowed  with  it,  when  a  note  from  the  organ  pealed  above 
the  confused  hum  of  the  place.  Dr.  Boultby,  Mr.  Helstone, 
and  Mr.  Hall  rose,  so  did  all  present,  and  gr-ace  was  sung 
to  the  accompaniment  of  the  music :  and  then  tea  began. 
She  was  kept  too  busy  with  her  office  for  a  while  to  have 
leisure  for  looking  round,  but  the  last  cup  being  filled,  she  threw 
a  restless  glance  over  the  room.  There  were  some  ladies 
and  several  gentlemen  standing  about  yet  unaccommodated 
with  seats  ;  amidst  a  group  she  recognised  her  spinster  friend, 
Miss  Mann,  whom  the  fine  wreather  had  tempted,  or  some 
urgent  friend  had  persuaded,  to  leave  her  drear  solitude  for 
one  hour  of  social  enjoyment.  Miss  Mann  looked  tired  of 
standing  :  a  lady  in  a  yellow  bonnet  brought  her  a  chair. 
Caroline  knew  well  that  '  chapeau  en  satin  jaune;  '  she 
knew  the  black  hair,  and  the  kindly,  though  rather 
opinionated  and  froward-looking  face  under  it ;  she  knew 
that  '  robe  de  soie  noire  ; '  she  knew  even  that '  schal  gris  de 
lin ; '  she  knew,  in  short,  Hortense  Moore,  and  she  wanted  to 
jump  up  and  run  to  her  and  kiss  her — to  give  her  one 
embrace  for  her  own  sake,  and  two  for  her  brother's.  She 
half  rose,  indeed,  with  a  smothered  exclamation,  and  perhaps — 
for  the  impulse  wras  very  strong — she  would  have  run  across 
the  room,  and  actually  saluted  her,  but  a  hand  replaced 
her  in  her  seat,  and  a  voice  behind  her  whispered  : — '  Wait 
till  after  tea,  Lina,  and  then  I'll  bring  her  to  you.' 

And  when  she  could  look  up  she  did,  and  there  was 
Robert  himself  close  behind,  smiling  at  her  eagerness,  looking 
better  than  she  had  ever  seen  him  look — looking,  indeed,  to 
her  partial  eyes,  so  very  handsome,  that  she  dared  not  trust 
herself  to  hazard  a  second  glance ;  for  his  image  struck  on 
her  vision  with  painful  brightness,  and  pictured  itself  on  her 
memory  as  vividly  as  if  there  daguerreotyped  by  a  pencil  of 
keen  lightning. 

He  moved  on,  and  spoke  to  Miss  Keeldar.  Shirley, 
irritated  by  some  unwelcome  attentions  from  Sam  Wynne, 
and  by  the  fact  of  that  gentleman  being  still  seated  on  her 


316  SHIRLEY 

gloves  and  handkerchief — and  probably,  also,  by  Moore's 
want,  of  punctuality — was  by  no  means  in  good  humour.  She 
first  shrugged  her  shoulders  at  him,  and  then  she  said  a  bitter 
word  or  two  about  his  '  insupportable  tardiness.'  Moore 
neither  apologized  nor  retorted;  he  stood  near  her  quietly, 
as  if  waiting  to  see  whether  she  would  recover  her  temper ; 
which  she  did  in  little  more  than  three  minutes,  indicating 
the  change  by  offering  him  her  hand.  Moore  took  it  with  a 
smile,  half-corrective,  half-grateful :  the  slightest  possible 
shake  of  the  head  delicately  marked  the  former  quality ;  it 
is  probable  a  gentle  pressure  indicated  the  latter. 

'  You  may  sit  where  you  can,  now,  Mr.  Moore,'  said 
Shirley,  also  smiling  :  '  you  see  there  is  not  an  inch  of  room 
for  you  here  ;  but  I  discern  plenty  of  space  at  Mrs.  Boultby's 
table,  between  Miss  Armitage  and  Miss  Birtwhistle ;  go  :  John 
Sykes  will  be  your  vis-a-vis,  and  you  will  sit  with  your  back 
towards  us.' 

Moore,  however,  preferred  lingering  about  where  he  was : 
he  now  and  then  took  a  turn  down  the  long  room,  pausing 
in  his  walk  to  interchange  greetings  with  other  gentlemen 
in  his  own  placeless  predicament ;  but  still  he  came  back  to 
the  magnet,  Shirley,  bringing  with  him,  each  time  he  re- 
turned, observations  it  was  necessary  to  whisper  in  her  ear. 

Meantime,  poor  Sam  Wynne  looked  far  from  comfortable : 
his  fair  neighbour,  judging  from  her  movements,  appeared 
in  a  mood  the  most  unquiet  and  unaccommodating :  she  would 
not  sit  still  two  seconds  :  she  was  hot ;  she  fanned  herself ; 
complained  of  want  of  air  and  space.  She  remarked  that, 
in  her  opinion,  when  people  had  finished  their  tea  they  ought 
to  leave  the  tables,  and  announced  distinctly  that  she 
expected  to  faint  if  the  present  state  of  things  continued. 
Mr.  Sarn  offered  to  accompany  her  into  the  open  air ;  just 
the  way  to  give  her  her  death  of  cold,  she  alleged  :  in  short, 
his  post  became  untenable ;  and  having  swallowed  his 
quantum  of  tea,  he  judged  it  expedient  to  evacuate. 

Moore  should  have  been  at  hand,  whereas  he  was  quite 
at  the  other  extremity  of  the  room,  deep  in  conference  with 


THE  SCHOOL-FEAST?  317 

Christopher  Sykes.  A  large  corn-factor,  Timothy  Ramsden, 
Esq.,  happened  to  be  nearer,  and  feeling  himself  tired  of 
standing,  he  advanced  to  fill  the  vacant  seat.  Shirley's 
expedients  did  not  fail  her :  a  sweep  of  her  scarf  upset  her 
teacup,  its  contents  were  shared  between  the  bench  and  her 
own  satin  dress.  Of  course,  it  became  necessary  to  call  a 
waiter  to  remedy  the  mischief :  Mr.  Ramsden,  a  stout,  puffy 
gentleman,  as  large  in  person  as  he  was  in  property,  held 
aloof  from  the  consequent  commotion.  Shirley,  usually 
almost  culpably  indifferent  to  slight  accidents  affecting  dress, 
&c.,  now  made  a  commotion  that  might  have  become  the 
most  delicate  and  nervous  of  her  sex ;  Mr.  Ramsden  opened 
his  mouth,  withdrew  slowly,  and,  as  Miss  Keeldar  again 
intimated  her  intention  to  '  give  way '  and  swoon  on  the  spot, 
he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  beat  a  heavy  retreat. 

Moore  at  last  returned  :  calmly  suveying  the  bustle,  and 
somewhat  quizzically  scanning  Shirley's  enigmatical-looking 
countenance,  he  remarked,  that  in  truth  this  was  the  hottest 
end  of  the  room  ;  that  he  found  a  climate  there  calculated 
to  agree  with  none  but  cool  temperaments  like  his  own  ; 
and,  putting  the  waiters,  the  napkins,  the  satin  robe,  the 
whole  turmoil,  in  short,  to  one  side,  he  installed  himself 
where  destiny  evidently  decreed  he  should  sit.  Shirley 
subsided ;  her  features  altered  their  lines :  the  raised  knit 
brow  and  inexplicable  curve  of  the  mouth  became  straight 
again :  wilfulness  and  roguery  gave  place  to  other  ex- 
pressions ;  and  all  the  angular  movements  with  wrhich  she 
had  vexed  the  soul  of  Sam  Wynne  were  conjured  to  rest  as 
by  a  charm.  Still,  no  gracious  glance  was  cast  on  Moore  : 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  accused  of  giving  her  a  world  of 
trouble,  and  roundly  charged  with  being  the  cause  of  de- 
priving her  of  the  esteem  of  Mr.  Ramsden,  and  the  invaluable 
friendship  of  Mr.  Samuel  Wynne. 

'  Wouldn't  have  offended  either  gentleman  for  the 
world,'  she  averred :  '  I  have  always  been  accustomed  to 
treat  both  with  the  most  respectful  consideration,  and  there, 
owing  to  you,  how  they  have  been  used  !  I  shall  not  be 


318  SHiRLM 

liappy  till  I  have  made  it  up  :  I  never  am  happy  till  I  ani 
friends  with  my  neighbours ;  so  to-morrow  I  must  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  Eoyd  corn-mill,  soothe  the  miller,  and  praise 
the  grain  ;  and  next  day  I  must  call  at  De  Walden — where 
I  hate  to  go — and  carry  in  my  reticule  half  an  oat-cake  to 
give  to  Mr.  Sam's  favourite  pointers.' 

1  You  know  the  surest  path  to  the  heart  of  each  swain,  I 
doubt  not,'  said  Moore  quietly.  He  looked  very  content  to 
have  at  last  secured  his  present  place  ;  but  he  made  no  fine 
speech  expressive  of  gratification,  and  offered  no  apology  for 
the  trouble  he  had  given.  His  phlegm  became  him  wonder- 
fully :  it  made  him  look  handsomer,  he  was  so  composed  : 
it  made  his  vicinage  pleasant,  it  was  so  peace-restoring. 
You  would  not  have  thought,  to  look  at  him,  that  he  was  a 
poor,  struggling  man  seated  beside  a  rich  woman ;  the 
calm  of  equality  stilled  his  aspect :  perhaps  that  calm,  too, 
reigned  in  his  soul.  Now  and  then,  from  the  way  in  which 
he  looked  down  on  Miss  Keeldar  as  he  addressed  her,  you 
would  have  fancied  his  station  towered  above  hers  as  much 
as  his  stature  did.  Almost  stern  lights  sometimes  crossed 
his  brow  and  gleamed  in  his  eyes :  their  conversation  had 
become  animated,  though  it  was  confined  to  a  low  key :  she 
was  urging  him  with  questions — evidently,  he  refused  to  her 
curiosity  all  the  gratification  it  demanded.  She  sought  his 
eye  once  with  hers  :  you  read,  in  its  soft  yet  eager  ex- 
pression, that  it  solicited  clearer  replies.  Moore  smiled 
pleasantly,  but  his  lips  continued  sealed.  Then  she  was 
piqued  and  turned  away,  but  he  recalled  her  attention  in  two 
minutes  :  he  seemed  making  promises,  which  he  soothed  her 
into  accepting,  in  lieu  of  information. 

It  appeared  that  the  heat  of  the  room  did  not  suit  Miss 
Helstone :  she  grew  paler  and  paler  as  the  process  of  tea- 
making  was  protracted.  The  moment  thanks  were  returned, 
she  quitted  the  table,  and  hastened  to  follow  her  cousin 
llortense,  who,  with  Miss  Mann,  had  already  sought  the 
open  air.  Robert  Moore  had  risen  when  she  did  perhaps 
he  meant  to  speak  to  her ;  but  there  was  yet  a  parting  word 


THE   SCHOOL-FEAST  319 

to  exchange  with  Miss  Keeldar,  and  while  it  was  being 
uttered,  Caroline  had  vanished 

Hortense  received  her  former  pupil  with  a  demeanour  of 
more  dignity  than  warmth  :  she  had  been  seriously  offended 
by  Mr.  Helstone's  proceedings,  and  had  all  along  considered 
Caroline  to  blame,  in  obeying  her  uncle  too  literally. 

'  You  are  a  very  great  stranger,'  she  said,  austerely,  as 
her  pupil  held  and  pressed  her  hand.  The  pupil  knew  her 
too  well  to  remonstrate  or  complain  of  coldness ;  she  let 
the  punctilious  whim  pass,  sure  that  her  natural  bontd  (I 
use  this  French  word,  because  it  expresses  just  what  I 
mean ;  neither  goodness  nor  good  nature,  but  something 
between  the  two)  would  presently  get  the  upper-hand.  It 
did :  Hortense  had  no  sooner  examined  her  face  well,  and 
observed  the  change  its  somewhat  wasted  features  betrayed, 
than  her  mien  softened.  Kissing  her  on  both  cheeks,  she 
asked  anxiously  after  her  health :  Caroline  answered  gaily. 
It  would,  however,  have  been  her  lot  to  undergo  a  long  cross- 
examination,  followed  by  an  endless  lecture  on  this  head, 
had  not  Miss  Mann  called  off  the  attention  of  the  questioner, 
by  requesting  to  be  conducted  home.  The  poor  invalid  was 
already  fatigued  :  her  weariness  made  her  cross — too  cross 
almost  to  speak  to  Caroline :  and  besides,  that  young 
person's  white  dress  and  lively  look  were  displeasing  in  the 
eyes  of  Miss .  Mann :  the  everyday  garb  of  brown  stuff  or 
gray  gingham,  and  the  everyday  air  of  melancholy,  suited 
the  solitary  spinster  better :  she  would  hardly  know  her 
young  friend  to-night  and  quitted  her  with  a  cool  nod. 
Hortense  having  promised  to  accompany  her  home,  they 
departed  together. 

Caroline  now  looked  round  for  Shirley.  She  saw  the 
rainbow  scarf  and  purple  dress  in  the  centre  of  a  throng  of 
ladies,  all  well  known  to  herself,  but  all  of  the  order  whom 
she  systematically  avoided  whenever  avoidance  was  possible. 
Shyer  at  some  moments  than  at  others,  she  felt  just  now  no 
courage  at  all  to  join  this  company  :  she  could  not,  however, 
stand  alone  where  all  others  went  in  pairs  or  parties,  so 


320  ,       SHIRLEY 

she  approached  a  group  of  her  own  scholars,  great  girls,  or 
rather  young  women,  who  were  standing  watching  some 
hundreds  of  the  younger  children  playing  at  blind-man's- 
buff. 

Miss  Helstone  knew  these  girls  liked  her,  yet  she  was  shy 
even  with  them  out  of  school :  they  were  not  more  in  awe 
of  her  than  she  of  them  :  she  drew  near  them  now,  rather  to 
find  protection  in  their  company  than  to  patronize  them  with 
her  presence.  By  some  instinct  they  knew  her  weakness, 
and  with  natural  politeness  they  respected  it.  Her  know- 
ledge commanded  their  esteem  when  she  taught  them  ;  her 
gentleness  attracted  their  regard ;  and  because  she  was 
what  they  considered  wise  and  good  when  on  duty  they 
kindly  overlooked  her  evident  timidity  when  off:  they  did 
not  take  advantage  of  it.  Peasant  girls  as  they  were,  they 
had  too  much  of  her  own  English  sensibility  to  be  guilty  of 
the  coarse  error  :  they  stood  round  her  still,  civil,  friendly, 
receiving  her  slight  smiles,  and  rather  hurried  efforts  to 
converse,  with  good  feeling  and  good  breeding :  the  last 
quality  being  the  result  of  the  first,  which  soon  set  her  at  her 
ease. 

Mr.  Sam  Wynne  coming  up  with  great  haste  to  insist  on 
the  elder  girls  joining  in  the  game  as  well  as  the  younger 
ones,  Caroline  was  again  left  alone.  She  was  meditating  a 
quiet  retreat  to  the  house,  when  Shirley,  perceiving  from  afar 
her  isolation,  hastened  to  her  side. 

'  Let  us  go  to  the  top  of  the  fields,'  she  said :  '  I  know 
you  don't  like  crowds,  Caroline.' 

'  But  it  will  be  depriving  you  of  a  pleasure,  Shirley,  to 
take  you  from  all  these  fine  people,  who  court  your  society 
so  assiduously,  and  to  whom  you  can,  without  art  or  effort, 
make  yourself  so  pleasant.' 

'  Not  quite  without  effort :  I  am  already  tired  of  the 
exertion  :  it  is  but  insipid  barren  work,  talking  and  laughing 
with  the  good  gentlefolks  of  Briarfield.  I  have  been  looking 
out  for  your  white  dress  for  the  last  ten  minutes  :  I  like  to 
watch  those  I  love  in  a  crowd,  and  to  compare  them  with 


THE  SCHOOL-FEAST  321 

others :  I  have  thus  compared  you.  You  resemble  none  of 
the  rest,  Lina :  there  are  some  prettier  faces  than  yours 
here ;  you  are  not  a  model-beauty  like  Harriet  Sykes,  for 
instance ;  beside  her,  your  person  appears  almost  insignifi- 
cant ;  but  you  look  agreeable — you  look  reflective — you  look 
what  I  call  interesting.' 

'  Hush,  Shirley !     You  flatter  me.' 
'  I  don't  wonder  that  your  scholars  like  you.' 
'Nonsense,  Shirley  :  talk  of  something  else.' 
'  We  will  talk  of  Moore,  then,  and  we  will  watch  him :  I 
see  him  even  now.' 

'  Where  ? '  And  as  Caroline  asked  the  question,  she 
looked  not  over  the  fields,  but  into  Miss  Keeldar's  eyes,  as 
was  her  wont  whenever  Shirley  mentioned  any  object  she 
descried  afar.  Her  friend  had  quicker  vision  than  herself ; 
and  Caroline  seemed  to  think  that  the  secret  of  her  eagle 
acuteness  might  be  read  in  her  dark  gray  irids  :  or  rather, 
perhaps,  she  only  sought  guidance  by  the  direction  of  those 
discriminating  and  brilliant  spheres. 

1  There  is  Moore,'  said  Shirley,  pointing  right  across  the 
wide  field  where  a  thousand  children  were  playing,  and  now 
nearly  a  thousand  adult  spectators  walking  about.  '  There — 
can  you  miss  the  tall  stature  and  straight  port  ?  He  looks 
amidst  the  set  that  surround  him  like  Eliab  amongst 
humbler  shepherds — like  Saul  in  a  war-council :  and  a  war- 
council  it  is,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.' 

'  Why  so,  Shirley  ? '  asked  Caroline,  whose  eye  had  at  last 
caught  the  object  it  sought.  '  Robert  is  just  now  speaking 
to  my  uncle,  and  they  are  shaking  hands ;  they  are  then 
reconciled.' 

'  Reconciled  not  without  good  reason,  depend  on  it  : 
making  common  cause  against  some  common  foe.  And 
why,  think  you,  are  Messrs.  Wynne  and  Sykes,  and 
Armitage  and  Ramsden,  gathered  in  such  a  close  circle 
round  them?  And  why  is  Malone  beckoned  to  join  them? 
Where  he  is  summoned,  be  sure  a  strong  arm  is  needed.' 
Shirley,  as  she  watched,  grew  restless :  her  eyes  flashed. 


322  SHIRLEY 

'  They  won't  trust  me,'  she  said  :  '  that  is  always  the 
way  when  it  comes  to  the  point.' 

'  What  about  ? ' 

1  Cannot  you  feel  ?  There  is  some  mystery  afloat :  some 
event  is  expected ;  some  preparation  is  to  be  made,  I  am 
certain  :  I  saw  it  all  in  Mr.  Moore's  manner  this  evening : 
he  was  excited,  yet  hard.' 

'  Hard  to  you,  Shirley  !  ' 

'Yes,  to  me.  He  often  is  hard  to  me.  We  seldom 
converse  tete-a-tete,  but  I  am  made  to  feel  that  the  basis  of 
his  character  is  not  of  eider-down.' 

1  Yet  he  seemed  to  talk  to  you  softly.' 

'  Did  he  not  ?  Very  gentle  tones  and  quiet  manner ; 
yet  the  man  is  peremptory  and  secret :  his  secrecy  vexes 
me.' 

'  Yes — Robert  is  secret.' 

'  Which  he  has  scarcely  a  right  to  be  with  me ;  especially 
as  he  commenced  by  giving  me  his  confidence.  Having 
done  nothing  to  forfeit  that  confidence,  it  ought  not  to  be 
withdrawn  :  but  I  suppose  I  am  not  considered  iron-souled 
enough  to  be  trusted  in  a  crisis.' 

1  He  fears,  probably,  to  occasion  you  uneasiness.' 

'  An  unnecessary  precaution  :  I  am  of  elastic  materials, 
not  soon  crushed ;  he  ought  to  know  that :  but  the  man  is 
proud  :  he  has  his  faults,  say  what  you  will,  Lina.  Observe 
how  engaged  that  group  appear  :  they  do  not  know  we  are 
watching  tliein.' 

'  If  we  keep  on  the  alert,  Shirley,  we  shall  perhaps  find 
the  clue  to  their  secret. 

'  There  will  be  some  unusual  movements  erelong — 
perhaps  to-morrow — possibly  to-night.  But  my  eyes  and 
ears  are  wide  open  :  Mr.  Moore,  you  shall  be  under  surveil- 
lance. Be  you  vigilant  also,  Lina.' 

'  I  will :  Robert  is  going,  I  saw  him  turn — I  believe  he 
noticed  us — they  are  shaking  hands.' 

'  Shaking  hands,  with  emphasis,'  added  Shirley  ;  '  as  if 
they  were  ratifying  some  solemn  league  and  covenant.' 


THE  SCHOOL-FEAST  323 

They  saw  Robert  quit  the  group,  pass  through  a  gate, 
and  disappear. 

1  And  he  has  not  bid  us  good-by,'  murmured  Caroline. 

Scarcely  had  the  words  escaped  her  lips,  when  she  tried 
by  a  smile  to  deny  the  confession  of  disappointment  they 
seemed  to  imply.  An  unbidden  suffusion  for  one  moment 
both  softened  and  brightened  her  eyes. 

'  Oh,  that  is  soon  remedied !  '  exclaimed  Shirley.  '  We'll 
make  him  bid  us  good-by.' 

'  Make  him !  That  is  not  the  same  thing,'  was  the 
answer. 

'  It  shall  be  the  same  thing.' 

'  But  he  is  gone :  you  can't  overtake  him.' 

'  I  know  a  shorter  way  than  that  he  has  taken :  we  will 
intercept  him.' 

'  But,  Shirley,  I  would  rather  not  go.' 

Caroline  said  this  as  Miss  Keeldar  seized  her  arm,  and 
hurried  her  down  the  fields.  It  was  vain  to  contend : 
nothing  was  so  wilful  as  Shirley,  when  she  took  a  whim  into 
her  head :  Caroline  found  herself  out  of  sight  of  the  crowd 
almost  before  she  was  aware,  and  ushered  into  a  narrow 
shady  spot,  embowered  above  with  hawthorns,  and  enamelled 
under  foot  with  daisies.  She  took  no  notice  of  the  evening 
sun  chequering  the  turf,  nor  was  she  sensible  of  the  pure 
incense  exhaling  at  this  hour  from  tree  and  plant ;  she  only 
heard  the  wicket  opening  at  one  end,  and  knew  Kobert  was 
approaching.  The  long  sprays  of  the  hawthorns,  shooting 
out  before  them,  served  as  a  screen  ;  they  saw  him  before 
he  observed  them.  At  a  glance  Caroline  perceived  that  his 
social  hilarity  was  gone :  he  had  left  it  behind  him  in  the 
joy-echoing  fields  round  the  school ;  what  remained  now 
was  his  dark,  quiet,  business  countenance.  As  Shirley  had 
said,  a  certain  hardness  characterised  his  air,  while  his  eye 
was  excited,  but  austere.  So  much  the  worse-timed  was 
the  present  freak  of  Shirley's  :  if  he  had  looked  disposed 
for  holiday  mirth,  it  would  not  have  mattered  much,  but 

now 

s» 


324  SHIRLEY 

'  I  told  you  not  to  come,'  said  Caroline,  somewhat 
bitterly,  to  her  friend.  She  seemed  truly  perturbed :  to  be 
intruded  on  Eobert  thus,  against  her  will  and  his  expecta- 
tion, and  when  he  evidently  would  rather  not  be  delayed, 
keenly  annoyed  her.  It  did  not  annoy  Miss  Keeldar  in  the 
least :  she  stepped  forward  and  faced  her  tenant,  barring 
his  way  : — '  You  omitted  to  bid  us  good-by,'  she  said. 

'  Omitted  to  bid  you  good-by !  Where  did  you  come 
from  ?  Are  you  fairies  ?  I  left  two  like  you,  one  in  purple 
and  one  in  white,  standing  at  the  top  of  a  bank,  four  fields 
off,  but  a  minute  ago.' 

'You  left  us  there  and  find  us  here.  We  have  been 
watching  you;  and  shall  watch  you  still:  you  must  be 
questioned  one  day,  but  not  now  :  at  present,  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  say  good-night,  and  then  pass.' 

Moore  glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  without  unbending 
his  aspect.  '  Days  of  fete  have  their  privileges,  and  so  have 
days  of  hazard,'  observed  he,  gravely. 

'  Come — don't  moralize  :  say  good-night,  and  pass,'  urged 
Shirley. 

'  Must  I  say  good -night  to  you,  Miss  Keeldar  ? 

'Yes,  and  to  Caroline  likewise.  It  is  nothing  new,  I 
hope  :  you  have  bid  us  both  good-night  before.' 

He  took  her  hand,  held  it  in  one  of  his,  and  covered  it 
with  the  other  :  he  looked  down  at  her  gravely,  kindly,  yet 
cornmandingly.  The  heiress  could  not  make  this  man  her 
subject :  in  his  gaze  on  her  bright  face  there  was  no 
servility,  hardly  homage  ;  but  there  was  interest  and  affec- 
tion, heightened  by  another  feeling  :  something  in  his  tone 
when  he  spoke,  as  well  as  in  his  words,  marked  that  last 
sentiment  to  be  gratitude. 

'  Your  debtor  bids  you  good-night ! — May  you  rest 
safely  and  serenely  till  morning.' 

'  And  you,  Mr.  Moore, — what  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
What  have  you  been  saying  to  Mr.  Helstone,  with  whom  I 
saw  you  shake  hands  ?  Why  did  all  those  gentlemen  gather 
round  you  ?  Put  away  reserve  for  once  :  be  frank  with  me.' 


THE   SCHOOL-FEAST  325 

1  Who  can  resist  you  ?  I  will  be  frank :  to-morrow,  if 
there  is  anything  to  relate,  you  shall  hear  it.' 

'Just  now,'  pleaded  Shirley  :  '  don't  procrastinate.' 

1  But  I  could  only  tell  half  a  tale ;  and  my  time  is 
limited, — I  have  not  a  moment  to  spare:  hereafter  I  will 
make  amends  for  delay  by  candour.' 

'  But  are  you  going  home  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Not  to  leave  it  any  more  to-night  ? ' 

1  Certainly  not.    At  present,  farewell  to  both  of  you  ! ' 

He  would  have  taken  Caroline's  hand  and  joined  it  in 
the  same  clasp  in  which  he  held  Shirley's,  but  somehow  it 
was  not  ready  for  him  ;  she  had  withdrawn  a  few  steps 
apart :  her  answer  to  Moore's  adieu  was  only  a  slight  bend 
of  the  head,  and  a  gentle,  serious  smile.  He  sought  no  more 
cordial  token  :  again  he  said  '  Farewell ! '  and  quitted  them 
both. 

'  There ! — it  is  over  1 '  said  Shirley,  when  he  was  gone. 
'We  have  made  him  bid  us  good-night,  and  yet  not  lost 
ground  in  his  esteem,  I  think,  Gary.' 

'  I  hope  not,'  was  the  brief  reply. 

'  I  consider  you  very  timid  and  undemonstrative/  re- 
marked Miss  Keeldar.  '  Why  did  you  not  give  Moore  your 
hand  when  he  offered  you  his  ?  He  is  your  cousin  :  you  like 
him.  Are  you  ashamed  to  let  him  perceive  your  affection  ?  ' 

'  He  perceives  all  of  it  that  interests  him :  no  need  to 
make  a  display  of  feeling.' 

'  You  are  laconic  :  you  would  be  stoical  if  you  could.  Is 
love,  in  your  eyes,  a  crime,  Caroline  ? ' 

1  Love,  a  crime  ! '  No,  Shirley — love  is  a  divine  virtue  ; 
but  why  drag  that  word  into  the  conversation  ?  It  is 
singularly  irrelevant !  ' 

'  Good  !  '  pronounced  Shirley. 

The  two  girls  paced  the  green  lane  in  silence.  Caroline 
first  resumed. 

'  Obtrusiveness  is  a  crime  ;  forwardness  is  a  crime  ;  and 
both  disgust :  but  love  ! — no  purest  angel  need  blush  to  love  I 


326  SHIRLEY 

And  when  I  see  or  hear  either  man  or  woman  couple  shame 
with  love,  I  know  their  minds  are  coarse,  their  associations 
debased.  Many  who  think  themselves  refined  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  and  on  whose  lips  the  word  "-vulgarity  "  is  for 
ever  hovering,  cannot  mention  "  love  "  without  betraying 
their  own  innate  and  imbecile  degradation  :  it  is  a  low  feel- 
ing in  their  estimation,  connected  only  with  low  ideas  for 
them.' 

'  You  describe  three-fourths  of  the  world,  Caroline.' 
'  They  are  cold — they  are  cowardly — they  are  stupid  on 
the  subject,  Shirley !     They  never  loved — they  never  were 
loved  !  ' 

'  Thou  art  right,  Lina !  And  in  their  dense  ignorance 
they  blaspheme  living  fire,  seraph-brought  from  a  divine 
altar.' 

1  They  confound  it  with  sparks  mounting  from  Tophet ! ' 
The  sudden  and  joyous  clash  of  bells  here  stopped  the 
dialogue  by  summoning  all  to  the  church. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHICH    THE    GENTEEL    READER    IS    RECOMMENDED    TO    SKIP, 
LOW   PERSONS   BEING   HERE   INTRODUCED 

THE  evening  was  still  and  warm ;  close  and  sultry  it  even 
promised  to  become.  Round  the  descending  sun  the  clouds 
glowed  purple  :  summer  tints,  rather  Indian  than  English, 
suffused  the  horizon,  and  cast  rosy  reflections  on  hill-side, 
house-front,  tree-bole ;  on  winding  road,  and  undulating 
pasture-ground.  The  two  girls  came  down  from  the  fields 
slowly :  by  the  time  they  reached  the  churchyard  the  bells 
were  hushed  ;  the  multitudes  were  gathered  into  the  church  : 
the  whole  scene  was  solitary. 

'  How  pleasant  and  calm  it  is  !  '  said  Caroline. 

'  And  how  hot  it  will  be  in  the  church  !  '  responded 
Shirley ;  '  and  what  a  dreary  long  speech  Dr.  Boultby  will 
make  !  and  how  the  curates  will  hammer  over  their  prepared 
orations !  For  my  part,  I  would  rather  not  enter.' 

'  But  my  uncle  will  be  angry,  if  he  observes  our 
absence.' 

'  I  will  bear  the  brunt  of  his  wrath  :  he  will  not  devour 
me.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  miss  his  pungent  speech.  I  know 
it  will  bo  all  sense  for  the  Church,  and  all  causticity  for 
Schism  :  he'll  not  forget  the  battle  of  Royd-lane.  I  shall  be 
sorry  also  to  deprive  you  of  Mr.  Hall's  sincere  friendly 
homily,  with  all  its  racy  Yorkshireisms ;  but  here  I  must 
stay.  The  gray  church  and  grayer  tombs  look  divine  with 
this  crimson  gleam  on  them.  Nature  is  now  at  her  evening 
prayers  :  she  is  kneeling  before  those  red  hills.  I  see  her 
prostrate  on  the  great  steps  of  her  altar,  praying  for  a  fair 


328  SHIRLEY 

night  for  mariners  at  sea,  for  travellers  in  deserts,  for  lambs 
on  moors,  and  unfledged  birds  in  woods.  Caroline,  I  see 
her !  and  I  will  tell  you  what  she  is  like :  she  is  like  what 
Eve  was  when  she  and  Adam  stood  alone  on  earth.' 
'  And  that  is  not  Milton's  Eve,  Shirley.' 
'  Milton's  Eve !  Milton's  Eve !  I  repeat.  No,  by  the 
pure  Mother  of  God,  she  is  not !  Gary,  we  are  alone  :  we 
may  speak  what  we  think.  Milton  was  great ;  but  was  he 
good?  His  brain  was  right;  how  was  his  heart ?  He  saw 
heaven  :  he  looked  down  on  hell.  He  saw  Satan,  and  Sin 
his  daughter,  and  Death  their  horrible  offspring.  Angels 
serried  before  him  their  battalions :  the  long  lines  of 
adamantine  shields  flashed  back  on  his  blind  eyeballs  the 
unutterable  splendour  of  heaven.  Devils  gathered  their 
legions  in  his  sight :  their  dim,  discrowned,  and  tarnished 
armies  passed  rank  and  file  before  him.  Milton  tried  to  see 
the  first  woman  ;  but,  Gary,  he  saw  her  not.' 
'  You  are  bold  to  say  so,  Shirley.' 

'  Not  more  bold  than  faithful.  It  was  his  cook  that  he 
saw ;  or  it  was  Mrs.  Gill,  as  I  have  seen  her,  making  custards, 
in  the  heat  of  summer,  in  the  cool  dairy,  with  rose-trees  and 
nasturtiums  about  the  latticed  window,  preparing  a  cold 
collation  for  the  rectors, — preserves,  and  "  dulcet  creams  " — 
puzzled 

What  choice  to  choose  for  delicacy  best ; 
What  order  so  contrived  as  not  to  mil 
Tastes,  not  well-joined,  inelegant ;  but  bring 
Taste  after  taste,  upheld  with  kindliest  change.' 

'  All  very  well  too,  Shirley.' 

'  I  would  beg  to  remind  him  that  the  first  men  of  the 
earth  were  Titans,  and  that  Eve  was  their  mother :  from 
her  sprang  Saturn,  Hyperion,  Oceanus ;  she  bore  Prome- 
theus  ' 

'  Pagan  that  you  are  !  what  does  that  signify  ? ' 

'  I  say,  there  were  giants  on  the  earth  in  those  days : 
giants  that  strove  to  scale  heaven.  The  first  woman's  breast 
that  heaved  with  life  on  this  world  yielded  the  daring  which 


LOW   PERSONS   INTRODUCED  329 

could  contend  with  Omnipotence  :  the  strength  which  could 
bear  a  thousand  years  of  bondage, — the  vitality  which  could 
feed  that  vulture  death  through  uncounted  ages, — the  un- 
exhausted life  and  uncorrupted  excellence,  sisters  to  im- 
mortality, which,  after  millenniums  of  crimes,  struggles, 
and  woes,  could  conceive  and  bring  forth  a  Messiah.  The 
first  woman  was  heaven-born :  vast  was  the  heart  whence 
gushed  the  well-spring  of  the  blood  of  nations ;  and  grand 
the  undegenerate  head  where  rested  the  consort-crown  of 
creation.' 

'  She  coveted  an  apple,  and  was  cheated  by  a  snake  :  but 
you  have  got  such  a  hash  of  Scripture  and  mythology  into 
your  head  that  there  is  no  making  any  sense  of  you.  You 
have  not  yet  told  me  what  you  saw  kneeling  on  those  hills.' 

'  I  saw — I  now  see — a  woman-Titan :  her  robe  of  blue 
air  spreads  to  the  outskirts  of  the  heath,  where  yonder  flock 
is  grazing ;  a  veil  white  as  an  avalanche  sweeps  from  her 
head  to  her  feet,  and  arabesques  of  lightning  flame  on  its 
borders.  Under  her  breast  I  see  her  zone,  purple  like  that 
horizon  :  through  its  blush  shines  the  star  of  evening.  Her 
steady  eyes  I  cannot  picture  ;  they  are  clear — they  ave  deep 
as  lakes — they  are  lifted  and  full  of  worship — they  tremble 
with  the  softness  of  love  and  the  lustre  of  prayer.  Her 
forehead  has  the  expanse  of  a  cloud,  and  is  paler  than  the 
early  moon,  risen  long  before  dark  gathers  :  she  reclines  her 
bosom  on  the  ridge  of  Stilbro'  Moor ;  her  mighty  hands  are 
joined  beneath  it.  So  kneeling,  face  to  face  she  speaks  with 
God.  That  Eve  is  Jehovah's  daughter,  as  Adam  was  his  son.' 

'  She  is  very  vague  and  visionary  !  Come,  Shirley,  we 
ought  to  go  into  church.' 

'  Caroline,  I  will  not :  I  will  stay  out  here  with  my 
mother  Eve,  in  these  days  called  Nature.  I  love  her — 
undying,  mighty  being !  Heaven  may  have  faded  from  her 
brow  when  she  fell  in  paradise ;  but  all  that  is  glorious  on 
earth  shines  there  still.  She  is  taking  me  to  her  bosom,  and 
showing  me  her  heart.  Hush,  Caroline !  you  will  see  her 
and  feel  as  I  do,  if  we  are  both  silent.' 


330  SHIRLEY 

'  I  will  humour  your  whim  ;  but  you  will  begin  talking 
again,  ere  ten  minutes  are  over.' 

Miss  Keeldar,  on  whom  the  soft  excitement  of  the  warm 
summer  evening  seemed  working  with  unwonted  power, 
leaned  against  an  upright  headstone :  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  deep-burning  west,  and  sank  into  a  pleasurable  trance. 
Caroline,  going  a  little  apart,  paced  to  and  fro  beneath  the 
Rectory  garden-wall,  dreaming,  too,  in  her  way.  Shirley 
had  mentioned  the  word  '  mother  :  '  that  word  suggested  to 
Caroline's  imagination  not  the  mighty  and  mystical  parent 
of  Shirley's  visions,  but  a  gentle  human  form — the  form  she 
ascribed  to  her  own  mother ;  unknown,  unloved,  but  not 
unlonged  for. 

'  Oh,  that  the  day  would  come  when  she  would  remem- 
ber her  child  !  Oh,  that  I  might  know  her,  and  knowing, 
love  her ! ' 

Such  was  her  aspiration. 

The  longing  of  her  childhood  filled  her  soul  again.  The 
desire  which  many  a  night  had  kept  her  awake  in  her  crib, 
and  which  fear  of  its  fallacy  had  of  late  years  almost 
extinguished,  relit  suddenly,  and  glowed  warm  in  her  heart : 
that  her  mother  might  come  some  happy  day,  and  send  for 
her  to  her  presence — look  upon  her  fondly  with  loving  eyes, 
and  say  to  her  tenderly  in  a  sweet  voice  : — '  Caroline,  my 
child,  I  have  a  home  for  you  :  you  shall  live  with  me.  All 
the  love  you  have  needed,  and  not  tasted,  from  infancy, 
I  have  saved  for  you  carefully.  Come  !  it  shall  cherish  you 
now.' 

A  noise  on  the  road  roused  Caroline  from  her  filial 
hopes,  and  Shirley  from  her  Titan  visions.  They  listened, 
and  heard  the  tramp  of  horses  :  they  looked,  and  saw  a 
glitter  through  the  trees  :  they  caught  through  the  foliage 
glimpses  of  martial  scarlet ;  helm  shone,  plume  waved.  Silent 
and  orderly,  six  soldiers  rode  softly  by. 

'  The  same  we  saw  this  afternoon,'  whispered  Shirley  : 
'  they  have  been  halting  somewhere  till  now.  They  wish 
to  be  as  little  noticed  as  possible,  and  are  seeking  their 


LOW  PEESONS  INTBODUCED  331 

rendezvous  at  this  quiet  hour,  while  the  people  are  at 
church.  Did  I  not  say  we  should  see  unusual  things  ere 
long  ? ' 

Scarcely  were  sight  and  sound  of  the  soldiers  lost,  when 
another  and  somewhat  different  disturbance  broke  the  night- 
hush — a  child's  impatient  scream.  They  looked :  a  man 
issued  from  the  church,  carrying  in  his  arms  an  infant — 
a  robust,  ruddy  little  boy,  of  some  two  years  old — roaring 
with  all  the  power  of  his  lungs  :  he  had  probably  just 
awaked  from  a  church-sleep  :  two  little  girls,  of  nine  and  ten, 
followed.  The  influence  of  the  fresh  air,  and  the  attraction 
of  some  flowers  gathered  from  a  grave,  soon  quieted  the 
child ;  the  man  sat  down  with  him,  dandling  him  on  his  knee 
as  tenderly  as  any  woman ;  the  two  girls  took  their  places 
one  on  each  side. 

'  Good-evening,  William,'  said  Shirley,  after  due  scrutiny 
of  the  man.  He  had  seen  her  before,  and  apparently  was 
waiting  to  be  recognised ;  he  now  took  off  his  hat,  and 
grinned  a  smile  of  pleasure.  He  was  a  rough-headed,  hard- 
featured  personage,  not  old,  but  very  weather-beaten ;  his 
attire  was  decent  and  clean,  that  of  his  children  singularly 
neat ;  it  was  our  old  friend  Farren.  The  young  ladies 
approached  him. 

'  You  are  not  going  into  the  church  ?  '  he  inquired,  gazing 
at  them  complacently,  yet  with  a  mixture  of  bashfulness  in 
his  look  :  a  sentiment  not  by  any  means  the  result  of  awe 
of  their  station,  but  only  of  appreciation  of  their  elegance 
and  youth.  Before  gentlemen— such  as  Moore  or  Helstone, 
for  instance — William  was  often  a  little  dogged ;  with 
proud  or  insolent  ladies,  too,  he  was  quite  unmanageable, 
sometimes  very  resentful ;  but  he  was  most  sensible  of,  most 
tractable  to,  good-humour  and  civility.  His  nature — a 
stubborn  one — was  repelled  by  inflexibility  in  other  natures ; 
for  which  reason,  he  had  uever  been  able  to  like  his  former 
master,  Moore  ;  and,  unconscious  of  that  gentleman's  good 
opinion  of  himself,  and  of  the  service  he  had  secretly 
rendered  him  in  recommending  him  as  gardener  to  Mr. 


332  SHIRLEY 

Yorke,  and  by  this  means  to  other  families  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, he  continued  to  harbour  a  grudge  against  his  austerity. 
Latterly,  he  had  often  worked  at  Fieldhead  ;  Miss  Keeldar's 
frank,  hospitable  manners  were  perfectly  charming  to  him. 
Caroline  he  had  known  from  her  childhood :  unconsciously, 
she  was  his  ideal  of  a  lady.  Her  gentle  mien,  step,  gestures, 
her  grace  of  person  and  attire,  moved  some  artist  fibres 
about  his  peasant-heart :  he  had  a  pleasure  in  looking  at 
her,  as  he  had  in  examining  rare  flowers,  or  in  seeing 
pleasant  landscapes.  Both  the  ladies  liked  William  :  it  was 
their  delight  to  lend  him  books,  to  give  him  plants ;  and  they 
preferred  his  conversation  far  before  that  of  many  coarse, 
hard,  pretentious  people,  immeasurably  higher  in  station. 

1  Who  was  speaking,  William,  when  you  came  out  ? ' 
asked  Shirley. 

'  A  gentleman  ye  set  a  deal  of  store  on,  Miss  Shirley — Mr. 
Donne.' 

'  You  look  knowing,  William.  How  did  you  find  out  my 
regard  for  Mr.  Donne  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  Miss  Shirley,  there's  a  gleg  light  i'  your  een  some- 
times which  betrays  you.  You  look  raight  down  scornful 
sometimes,  when  Mr.  Donne  is  by.' 

'  Do  you  like  him  yourself,  William  ?  ' 

'  Me  ?  I'm  stalled  o'  t'  curates,  and  so  is  t'  wife  :  they've 
no  manners ;  they  talk  to  poor  folk  fair  as  if  they  thought 
they  were  beneath  them.  They're  allus  magnifying  their 
office  :  it  is  a  pity  but  their  office  could  magnify  them  ;  but 
it  does  nought  o'  t'  soart.  I  fair  hate  pride.' 

'  But  you  are  proud  in  your  own  way  yourself,'  interposed 
Caroline  :  '  you  are  what  you  call  house-proud  ;  you  like  to 
have  everything  handsome  about  you :  sometimes  you  look 
as  if  you  were  almost  too  proud  to  take  your  wages.  When 
you  were  out  of  work,  you  were  too  proud  to  get  anything  on 
credit ;  but  for  your  children,  I  believe  you  would  rather 
have  starved  than  gone  to  the  shops  without  money  ;  and 
when  I  wanted  to  give  you  something,  what  a  difficulty  I 
had  in  making  you  take  it  I  ' 


LOW  PEESONS  INTRODUCED  333 

'  It  is  partly  true,  Miss  Caroline  :  ony  day  I'd  rather  give 
than  take,  especially  from  sich  as  ye.  Look  at  t'  difference 
between  us :  ye're  a  little,  young,  slender  lass,  and  I'm  a 
great  strong  man  :  I'm  rather  more  nor  twice  your  age.  It 
is  not  my  part  then,  I  think,  to  tak*  fro'  ye — to  be  under 
obligations  (as  they  say)  to  ye  ;  and  that  day  ye  came  to  our 
house,  and  called  me  to  t'  door,  and  offered  me  five  shillings, 
which  I  doubt  ye  could  ill  spare, — for  ye've  no  fortin',  I 
know, — that  day  I  war  fair  a  rebel — a  radical — an  insurrec- 
tionist ;  and  ye  made  me  so.  I  thought  it  shameful  that, 
willing  and  able  as  I  was  to  work,  I  suld  be  i'  such  a  condi- 
tion that  a  young  cratur  about  the  age  o'  my  own  eldest  lass 
Buld  think  it  needful  to  come  and  offer  me  her  bit  o*  brass.' 

'  I  suppose  you  were  angry  with  me,  William  ?  ' 

'  I  almost  was,  in  a  way  ;  but  I  forgave  ye  varry  soon  : 
ye  meant  well.  Ay,  I  am  proud,  and  so  are  ye ;  but  your 
pride  and  mine  is  t'  raight  mak' — what  we  call  i'  Yorkshire, 
clean  pride — such  as  Mr.  Malone  and  Mr.  Donne  knows 
nought  about :  theirs  is  mucky  pride.  Now,  I  shall  teach  my 
lasses  to  be  as  proud  as  Miss  Shirley  there,  and  my  lads  to 
be  as  proud  as  mysel'n  ;  but  I  dare  ony  o'  'em  to  be  like  t' 
curates  :  I'd  lick  little  Michael,  if  I  seed  him  show  any  signs 
o1  that  feeling.' 

1  What  is  the  difference,  William  ? ' 

'  Ye  know  t'  difference  weel  enow,  but  ye  want  me  to  get 
agate  o'  talking.  Mr.  Malone  and  Mr.  Donne  is  almost  too 
proud  to  do  aught  for  theirsel'n  ;  ive  are  almost  too  proud  to 
let  anybody  do  aught  for  us.  T'  curates  can  hardly  bide  to 
speak  a  civil  word  to  them  they  think  beneath  them  ;  ice  can 
hardly  bide  to  tak'  an  uncivil  word  fro'  them  that  thinks 
themsel'n  aboon  us.' 

'  Now,  William,  be  humble  enough  to  tell  me  truly  how 
you  are  getting  on  in  the  world  ?  Are  you  well  off  ?  ' 

'Miss  Shirley — I  am  varry  well  off.  Since  I  got  into  t' 
gardening  line,  wi'  Mr.  Yorke's  help,  and  since  Mr.  Hall 
(another  o'  t'  raight  sort)  helped  my  wife  to  set  up  a  bit  of  a 
shop,  I've  nought  to  complain  of.  My  family  has  plenty  to 


334  SHIELEY 

eat  and  plenty  to  wear  :  my  pride  makes  me  find  means  to 
save  an  odd  pound  now  and  then  against  rainy  days  ;  for  I 
think  I'd  die  afore  I'd  come  to  t'  parish  :  and  me  and  mine  is 
content ;  but  th'  neighbours  is  poor  yet :  I  see  a  great  deal 
of  distress.' 

'  And,  consequently,  there  is  still  discontent,  I  suppose  ? ' 
inquired  Miss  Keeldar. 

'  Consequently — ye  say  right — consequently.  In  course, 
starving  folk  cannot  be  satisfied  or  settled  folk.  The 
country's  not  in  a  safe  condition  ;  I'll  say  so  mich  ! ' 

'  But  what  can  be  done  ?  What  more  can  I  do,  for 
instance  ? ' 

'  Do  ? — ye  can  do  naught  mich,  poor  young  lass  !  Ye've 
gi'en  your  brass  :  ye've  done  well.  If  ye  could  transport 
your  tenant,  Mr.  Moore,  to  Botany  Bay,  ye'd  happen  do 
better.  Folks  hate  him.' 

'  William,  for  shame  ! '  exclaimed  Caroline,  warmly.  '  If 
folks  do  hate  him,  it  is  to  their  disgrace,  not  his.  Mr.  Moore 
himself  hates  nobody ;  he  only  wants  to  do  his  duty,  and 
maintain  his  rights  :  you  are  wrong  to  talk  so  ! ' 

'  I  talk  as  I  think.  He  has  a  cold,  unfeeling  heart,  youd' 
Moore.' 

'  But,'  interposed  Shirley,  '  supposing  Moore  was  driven 
from  the  country,  and  his  mill  razed  to  the  ground,  would 
people  have  more  work  ?  ' 

'  They'd  have  less.  I  know  that,  and  they  know  that ; 
and  there  is  many  an  honest  lad  driven  desperate  by  the 
certainty  that  whichever  way  he  turns,  he  cannot  better 
himself,  and  there  is  dishonest  men  plenty  to  guide  them  to 
thedevil :  scoundrels  that  reckons  to  be  the  "  people's  friends," 
and  that  knows  naught  about  the  people,  and  is  as  insincere, 
as  Lucifer.  I've  lived  aboon  forty  year  in  the  world,  and  I 
believe  that  "  the  people  "  will  never  have  any  true  friends 
but  theirsel'n,  and  them  two  or  three  good  folk  i'  different 
stations,  that  is  friends  to  all  the  world.  Human  natur', 
taking  it  i'  th'  lump,  is  naught  but  selfishness.  It  is  but 
excessive  few  ;  it  is  but  just  an  exception  here  and  there,  now 


LOW  PEBSONS  INTBODUCED  335 

and  then,  sich  as  ye  two  young  uns  and  me,  that  being  in  a 
different  sphere,  can  understand  t'  one  t'  other,  and  be 
friends  wi'out  slavishness  o'  one  hand,  or  pride  o'  t'  other. 
Them  that  reckons  to  be  friends  to  a  lower  class  than  their 
own  fro'  political  motives  is  never  to  be  trusted  :  they  always 
try  to  make  their  inferiors  tools.  For  my  own  part,  I  will 
neither  be  patronized  nor  misled  for  no  man's  pleasure. 
I've  had  overtures  made  to  me  lately  that  I  saw  were 
treacherous,  and  I  flung  'em  back  i'  the  faces  o'  them  that 
offered  'em.' 

'  You  won't  tell  us  what  overtures  ?  ' 

'  I  will  not :  it  would  do  no  good ;  it  would  mak'  no 
difference  :  them  they  concerned  can  look  after  theirsel'n.' 

'  Ay,  we'se  look  after  wersel'n,'  said  another  voice.  Joe 
Scott  had  sauntered  forth  from  the  church  to  get  a  breath  of 
fresh  air,  and  there  he  stood. 

1  I'll  warrant  ye,  Joe,'  observed  William,  smiling. 

'  And  I'll  warrant  my  maister,'  was  the  answer.  '  Young 
ladies,'  continued  Joe,  assuming  a  lordly  air,  'ye'd  better  go 
into  th'  house.' 

'  I  wonder  what  for  ? '  inquired  Shirley,  to  whom  the 
overlooker's  somewhat  pragmatical  manners  were  familiar, 
and  who  was  often  at  war  with  him  ;  for  Joe,  holding  super- 
cilious theories  about  women  in  general,  resented  greatly,  in 
his  secret  soul,  the  fact  of  his  master  and  his  master's  mill 
being,  in  a  manner,  under  petticoat  government,  and  had 
felt  as  wormwood  and  gall,  certain  business-visits  of  the 
heiress  to  the  Hollow's  counting-house. 

'  Because  there  is  naught  agate  that  fits  women  to  be 
consarned  in.' 

'  Indeed !  There  is  prayer  and  preaching  agate  in  that 
church  ;  are  we  not  concerned  in  that  ?  ' 

'  Ye  have  been  present  neither  at  the  prayer  nor  preaching, 
ma'am,  if  I  have  observed  aright.  What  I  alluded  to  was 
politics  :  William  Fairen,  here,  was  touching  on  that  subject, 
if  I'm  not  mista'en.' 

'  Well,  what  then  ?     Politics  are  our  habitual  study,  Joe. 


336  SHIRLEY 

Do  you  know  I  see  a  newspaper  every  day,  and  two  of  a 
Sunday  ? ' 

'  I  should  think  you'll  read  the  marriages,  probably,  Miss, 
and  the  murders,  and  the  accidents,  and  sich  like  ?  ' 

'  I  read  the  leading  articles,  Joe,  and  the  foreign  intelli- 
gence, and  I  look  over  the  market  prices  :  in  short,  I  read 
just  what  gentlemen  read.' 

Joe  looked  as  if  he  thought  this  talk  was  like  the  chatter- 
ing of  a  pie.  He  replied  to  it  by  a  disdainful  silence. 

'  Joe,'  continued  Miss  Keeldar,  '  I  never  yet  could  ascer- 
tain properly,  whether  you  are  a  Whig  or  a  Tory  :  pray 
which  party  has  the  honour  of  your  alliance  ?  ' 

'  It  is  rayther  difficult  to  explain  where  you  are  sure  not 
to  be  understood,'  was  Joe's  haughty  response  ;  '  but,  as  to 
being  a  Tory,  I'd  as  soon  be  an  old  woman,  or  a  young  one, 
which  is  a  more  flimsier  article  still.  It  is  the  Tories  that 
carries  on  the  war  and  ruins  trade ;  and,  if  I  be  of  any 
party — though  political  parties  is  all  nonsense — I'm  of  that 
which  is  most  favourable  to  peace,  and,  by  consequence,  to 
the  mercantile  interests  of  this  here  land.' 

1  So  am  I,  Joe,'  replied  Shirley,  who  had  rather  a  pleasure 
in  teasing  the  overlooker,  by  persisting  in  talking  on  subjects 
with  which  he  opined  she — as  a  woman — had  no  right  to 
meddle :  '  partly,  at  least.  I  have  rather  a  leaning  to  the 
agricultural  interest,  too  ;  as  good  reason  is,  seeing  that  I 
don't  desire  England  to  be  under  the  feet  of  France,  and 
that  if  a  share  of  my  income  comes  from  Hollow's  mill,  a 
larger  share  comes  from  the  landed  estate  around  it.  It 
would  not  do  to  take  any  measures  injurious  to  the  farmers, 
Joe,  I  think  ?  ' 

'  The  dews  at  this  hour  is  unwholesome  for  females,' 
observed  Joe. 

'  If  you  make  that  remark  out  of  interest  in  me,  I 
have  merely  to  assure  you  that  I  am  impervious  to  cold. 
I  should  not  mind  taking  my  turn  to  watch  the  mill 
one  of  these  summer  nights,  armed  with  your  musket, 
Joe.' 


LOW  PEESONS  INTRODUCED  337 

Joe  Scott's  chin  was  always  rather  prominent :  he  poked 
it  out,  at  this  speech,  some  inches  farther  than  usual. 

'  But — to  go  back  to  my  sheep,'  she  proceeded — '  clothier 
and  mill-owner  as  I  am,  besides  farmer,  I  cannot  get  out  of 
my  head  a  certain  idea  that  we  manufacturers  and  persons 
of  business  are  sometimes  a  little — a  very  little  selfish  and 
shortsighted  in  our  views,  and  rather  too  regardless  of  human 
suffering,  rather  heartless  in  our  pursuit  of  gain  :  don't  you 
agree  with  me,  Joe  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  argue,  where  I  cannot  be  comprehended,'  was 
again  the  answer. 

1  Man  of  mystery !  Your  master  will  argue  with  me 
sometimes,  Joe  .  he  is  not  so  stiff  as  you  are.' 

'  Maybe  not .  we've  all  our  own  ways.' 

'  Joe,  do  you  seriously  think  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world 
is  lodged  in  male  skulls  ?  ' 

'  I  think  that  women  are  a  kittle  and  a  froward  genera- 
tion ;  and  I've  a  great  respect  for  the  doctrines  delivered  in 
the  second  chapter  of  St.  Paul's  first  Epistle  to  Timothy.' 

'  What  doctrines,  Joe  ? ' 

' "  Let  the  woman  learn  in  silence,  with  all  subjection. 
I  suffer  not  a  woman  to  teach,  nor  to  usurp  authority  over 
the  man  ;  but  to  be  in  silence.  For  Adam  was  first  formed, 
then  Eve."  ' 

'  What  has  that  to  do  with  the  business  ? '  interjected 
Shirley  :  '  that  smacks  of  rights  of  primogeniture.  I'll  bring 
it  up  to  Mr.  Yorke  the  first  time  he  inveighs  against  those 
rights.' 

'  And,'  continued  Joe  Scott,  '  Adam  was  not  deceived ; 
but  the  woman,  being  deceived,  was  in  the  transgression.' 

'  More  shame  to  Adam  to  sin  with  his  eyes  open  ! '  cried 
Miss  Keeldar.  '  To  confess  the  honest  truth,  Joe,  I  never 
was  easy  in  my  mind  concerning  that  chapter  :  it  puzzles  me.' 

'  It  is  very  plain,  Miss  :  he  that  runs  may  read.' 

1  He  may  read  it  in  his  own  fashion,'  remarked  Caroline, 
now  joining  in  the  dialogue  for  the  first  time.  '  You  allow 
the  right  of  private  judgment,  I  suppose,  Joe  ? ' 


338  SHIRLEY 

1  My  certy,  that  I  do !  I  allow  and  claim  it  for  every 
line  of  the  holy  Book.' 

'  Women  may  exercise  it  as  well  as  men  ? ' 

'  Nay :  women  is  to  take  their  husbands'  opinion,  both  in 
politics  and  religion  :  it's  wholesomest  for  them.' 

'  Oh  !  oh  ! '  exclaimed  both  Shirley  and  Caroline. 

'  To  be  sure  ;  no  doubt  on't,'  persisted  the  stubborn  over- 
looker. 

1  Consider  yourself  groaned  down,  and  cried  shame  over, 
for  such  a  stupid  observation,'  said  Miss  Keeldar.  '  You 
might  as  well  say,  men  are  to  take  the  opinions  of  their 
priests  without  examination.  Of  what  value  would  a 
religion  so  adopted  be  ?  It  would  be  mere  blind,  besotted 
superstition.' 

'  And  what  is  your  reading,  Miss  Helstone,  o'  these 
words  o'  St.  Paul's  ?  ' 

'  Hem  !  I — I  account  for  them  in  this  way  :  he  wrote 
that  chapter  for  a  particular  congregation  of  Christians, 
under  peculiar  circumstances ;  and  besides,  I  dare  say,  if  I 
could  read  the  original  Greek,  I  should  find  that  many  of 
the  words  have  been  wrongly  translated,  perhaps  misappre- 
hended altogether.  It  would  be  possible,  I  doubt  not,  with 
a  little  ingenuity,  to  give  the  passage  quite  a  contrary  turn  : 
to  make  it  say,  "  Let  the  woman  speak  out  whenever  she 
sees  fit  to  make  an  objection  ;  " — "  it  is  permitted  to  a  woman 
to  teach  and  to  exercise  authority  as  much  as  may  be.  Man, 
meantime,  cannot  do  better  than  hold  his  peace,"  and 
so  on.' 

1  That  willn't  wash,  Miss.' 

'  I  dare  say  it  will.  My  notions  are  dyed  in  faster  colours 
than  yours,  Joe.  Mr.  Scott,  you  are  a  thoroughly  dogmatical 
person,  and  always  were  :  I  like  William  better  than  you.' 

'  Joe  is  well  enough  in  his  own  house,'  said  Shirley  :  '  I 
have  seen  him  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  at  home.  There  is  not  a 
better  nor  a  kinder  husband  in  Briarfield.  He  does  not 
dogmatize  to  his  wife.' 

'  My  wife  is  a  hard-working,  plain  woman  :   time  and 


LOW  PERSONS  INTRODUCED  339 

trouble  has  ta'en  all  the  conceit  out  of  her ;  but  that  is  not 
the  case  with  you,  young  misses.  And  then  you  reckon  to 
have  so  much  knowledge;  and  i'  my  thoughts  it's  only 
superficial  sort  o'  vanities  you're  acquainted  with.  I  can 
tell — happen  a  year  sin' — one  day  Miss  Caroline  coming 
into  our  counting-house  when  I  war  packing  up  summut 
behind  t'  great  desk,  and  she  didn't  see  me,  and  she  brought 
a  slate  wi'  a  sum  on  it  to  t'  maister  :  it  were  only  a  bit  of  a 
sum  in  practice,  that  our  Harry  would  have  settled  i'  two 
minutes.  She  couldn't  do  it ;  Mr.  Moore  had  to  show  her 
how  ;  and  when  he  did  show  her,  she  couldn't  understand 
him.' 

1  Nonsense,  Joe  ! ' 

'  Nay,  it's  no  nonsense :  and  Miss  Shirley,  there,  reckons 
to  hearken  to  t'  maister  when  he's  talking  ower  trade,  so 
attentive  like,  as  if  she  followed  him  word  for  word,  and  all 
war  as  clear  as  a  lady's  looking-glass  to  her  een  ;  and  all  t' 
while  she's  peeping  and  peeping  out  o'  t'  window  to  see  if 
t'  mare  stands  quiet ;  and  then  looking  at  a  bit  of  a  splash 
on  her  riding-skirt ;  and  then  glancing  glegly  round  at  wer 
counting-house  cobwebs  and  dust,  and  thinking  what  mucky 
folk  we  are,  and  what  a  grand  ride  she'll  have  just  i'  now 
ower  Nunnely-common.  She  hears  no  more  o'  Mr.  Moore's 
talk  nor  if  he  spake  Hebrew.' 

1  Joe,  you  are  a  real  slanderer.  I  would  give  you  your 
answer,  only  the  people  are  coming  out  of  church  :  we  must 
leave  you.  Man  of  prejudice,  good-by  :  William,  good-by. 
Children,  come  up  to  Fieldhead  to-morrow,  and  you  shall 
choose  what  you  like  best  out  of  Mrs.  Gill's  store-room.' 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

A     SUMMER     NIGHT 

THE  hour  was  now  that  of  dusk.  A  clear  air  favoured  the 
kindling  of  the  stars. 

'  There  will  be  just  light  enough  to  show  me  the  way 
home,'  said  Miss  Keeldar,  as  she  prepared  to  take  leave  of 
Caroline  at  the  Eectory  garden-door. 

'  You  must  not  go  alone,  Shirley.  Fanny  shall  accom- 
pany you.' 

'  That  she  shall  not.  Of  what  need  I  be  afraid  in  my 
own  parish  ?  I  would  walk  from  Fieldhead  to  the  church 
any  fine  midsummer  night,  three  hours  later  than  this,  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing  the  stars,  and  the  chance  of 
meeting  a  fairy.' 

'  But  just  wait  till  the  crowd  is  cleared  away.' 

'  Agreed.  There  are  the  five  Misses  Armitage  streaming 
by.  Here  comes  Mrs.  Sykes's  phaeton,  Mr.  Wynne's  close 
carriage,  Mrs.  Birtwhistle's  car  :  I  don't  wish  to  go  through 
the  ceremony  of  bidding  them  all  good -by,  so  we  will  step 
into  the  garden  and  take  shelter  amongst  the  laburnums  for 
an  instant.' 

The  rectors,  their  curates  and  their  churchwardens,  now 
issued  from  the  church-porch.  There  was  a  great  confabu- 
lation, shaking  of  hands,  congratulation  on  speeches,  recom- 
mendation to  be  careful  of  the  night  air,  &c.  By  degrees 
the  throng  dispersed ;  the  carriages  drove  off.  Miss  Keeldar 
was  just  emerging  from  her  flowery  refuge,  when  Mr. 
Helstone  entered  the  garden  and  met  her. 

'  Oh  !  I  want  you  !  '  he  said  :  '  I  was  afraid  you  were 
already  gone.  Caroline,  come  here  ! ' 


A  SUMMEE  NIGHT  841 

Caroline  came,  expecting,  as  Shirley  did,  a  lecture  on 
not  having  been  visible  at  church.  Other  subjects,  how- 
ever, occupied  the  Eector's  mind. 

'  I  shall  not  sleep  at  home  to-night/  he  continued.  '  I 
have  just  met  with  an  old  friend,  and  promised  to  accom- 
pany him.  I  shall  return  probably  about  noon  to-morrow. 
Thomas,  the  clerk,  is  engaged,  and  I  cannot  get  him  to 
sleep  in  the  house,  as  I  usually  do  when  I  am  absent  for  a 
night ;  now ' 

'  Now,'  interrupted  Shirley,  '  you  want  me  as  a  gentle- 
man— the  first  gentleman  in  Briarfield,  in  short,  to  supply 
your  place,  be  master  of  the  Eectory,  and  guardian  of  your 
niece  and  maids  while  you  are  away  ?  ' 

I  Exactly,  captain  :  I  thought  the  post  would  suit  you. 
Will  you  favour  Caroline  so  far  as  to  be  her  guest  for  one 
night  ?     Will  you  stay  here  instead  of  going  back  to  Field- 
head?' 

'  And  what  will  Mrs.  Pryor  do  ?     She  expects  me  home.' 

I 1  will  send  her  word.     Come,  make  up  your  mind  to 
stay.     It  grows  late  ;  the  dew  falls  heavily  :  you  and  Caroline 
will  enjoy  each  other's  society,  I  doubt  not.' 

1 1  promise  you  then  to  stay  with  Caroline,'  replied 
Shirley.  '  As  you  say,  we  shall  enjoy  each  other's  society : 
we  will  not  be  separated  to-night.  Now,  rejoin  your  old 
friend,  and  fear  nothing  for  us.' 

'  If  there  should  chance  to  be  any  disturbance  in  the 
night,  captain — if  you  should  hear  the  picking  of  a  lock,  the 
cutting  out  of  a  pane  of  glass,  a  stealthy  tread  of  steps 
about  the  house  (and  I  need  not  fear  to  tell  you,  who  bear  a 
well-tempered,  mettlesome  heart  under  your  girl's  ribbon- 
sash,  that  such  little  incidents  are  very  possible  in  the 
present  time),  what  would  you  do  ?  ' 

'  Don't  know — faint,  perhaps — fall  down,  and  have  to  be 
picked  up  again.  But,  Doctor,  if  you  assign  me  the  post  of 
honour,  you  must  give  me  arms.  What  weapons  are  there 
your  stronghold  ? ' 

'  You  could  not  wield  a  sword  ?  ' 


342  SHIRLEY 

'  No  ;  I  could  manage  the  carving-knife  better.' 

'  You  will  find  a  good  one  in  the  dining-room  sideboard  : 
a  lady's  knife,  light  to  handle,  and  as  sharp-pointed  as  a 
poniard.' 

1  It  will  suit  Caroline  ;  but  you  must  give  me  a  brace  of 
pistols ;  I  know  you  have  pistols.' 

'  I  have  two  pairs ;  one  pair  I  can  place  at  your  disposal. 
You  will  find  them  suspended  over  the  mantelpiece  of  my 
study  in  cloth  cases.' 

1  Loaded  ? 

'  Yes,  but  not  on  the  cock.  Cock  them  before  you  go  to 
bed.  It  is  paying  you  a  great  compliment,  captain,  to  lend 
you  these  :  were  you  one  of  the  awkward  squad  you  should 
not  have  them.' 

'  I  will  take  care.  You  need  delay  no  longer,  Mr. 
Helstone :  you  may  go  now.— He  is  gracious  to  me  to  lend 
me  his  pistols,'  she  remarked,  as  the  Eector  passed  out  at 
the  garden-gate.  '  But  come,  Lina,'  she  continued  ;  '  let  us 
go  in  and  have  some  supper :  I  was  too  much  vexed  at  tea 
with  the  vicinage  of  Mr.  Sam  Wynne  to  be  able  to  eat,  and 
now  I  am  really  hungry.' 

Entering  the  house,  they  repaired  to  the  darkened  dining- 
room,  through  the  open  windows  of  which  apartment  stole 
the  evening  air,  bearing  the  perfume  of  flowers  from  the 
garden,  the  very  distant  sound  of  far-retreating  steps  from 
the  road,  and  a  soft  vague  murmur,  whose  origin  Caroline 
explained  by  the  remark,  uttered  as  she  stood  listening  at 
the  casement :  '  Shirley,  I  hear  the  beck  in  the  Hollow.' 

Then  she  rang  the  bell,  asked  for  a  candle  and  some 
bread  and  milk — Miss  Keeldar's  usual  supper  and  her  own. 
Fanny,  when  she  brought  in  the  tray,  would  have  closed 
the  windows  and  the  shutters,  but  was  requested  to  desist 
for  the  present :  the  twilight  was  too  calm,  its  breath  too 
balmy  to  be  yet  excluded.  They  took  their  meal  in  silence : 
Caroline  rose  once,  to  remove  to  the  window-sill  a  glass  of 
flowers  which  stood  on  the  sideboard ;  the  exhalation  from 
the  blossoms  being  somewhat  too  powerful  for  the  sultry 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT  343 

room  :  in  returning,  she  half  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  from 
it  something  that  glittered  clear  and  keen  in  her  hand. 

'  You  assigned  this  to  me,  then,  Shirley — did  you  ?  It  is 
bright,  keen-edged,  finely-tapered :  it  is  dangerous-looking, 
I  never  yet  felt  the  impulse  which  could  move  me  to  direct 
this  against  a  fellow-creature.  It  is  difficult  to  fancy  what 
circumstances  could  nerve  my  arm  to  strike  home  with  this 
long  knife.' 

1 1  should  hate  to  do  it,'  replied  Shirley  ;  '  but  I  think  I 
could  do  it,  if  goaded  by  certain  exigencies  which  I  can 
imagine.'  And  Miss  Keeldar  quietly  sipped  her  glass  of  new 
milk,  looking  somewhat  thoughtful,  and  a  little  pale  :  though, 
indeed,  when  did  she  not  look  pale  ?  She  was  never  florid. 

The  milk  sipped  and  the  bread  eaten,  Fanny  was  again 
summoned  :  she  and  Eliza  were  recommended  to  go  to  bed, 
which  they  were  quite  willing  to  do,  being  weary  of  the 
day's  exertions,  of  much  cutting  of  currant-buns,  and  filling 
of  urns  and  teapots,  and  running  backwards  and  forwards 
with  trays.  Ere  long  the  maids'  chamber-door  was  heard  to 
close ;  Caroline  took  a  candle,  and  went  quietly  all  over  the 
house,  seeing  that  every  window  was  fast,  and  every  door 
barred.  She  did  not  even  evade  the  haunted  back-kitchen, 
nor  the  vault-like  cellars.  These  visited,  she  returned. 

1  There  is  neither  spirit  nor  flesh  in  the  house  at  present,' 
she  said,  which  should  not  be  there.  It  is  now  near  eleven 
o'clock,  fully  bed-time,  yet  I  would  rather  sit  up  a  little 
longer,  if  you  do  not  object,  Shirley.  Here,'  she  continued, 
'  I  have  brought  the  brace  of  pistols  from  my  uncle's  study  : 
you  may  examine  them  at  your  leisure." 

She  placed  them  on  the  table  before  her  friend. 

'  Why  would  you  rather  sit  up  longer  ? '  asked  Miss 
Keeldar,  taking  up  the  firearms,  examining  them,  and  again 
laying  them  down. 

'  Because  I  have  a  strange,  excited  feeling  in  my  heart.' 

'  So  have  I.' 

1  Is  this  state  of  sleeplessness  and  restlessness  caused  by 
something  electrical  in  the  air,  I  wonder  ?  ' 


344  SHIRLEY 

'  No :  the  aky  is  clear,  the  stars  numberless  :  it  is  a  fine 
night.' 

'  But  very  still.  I  hear  the  water  fret  over  its  stony  bed 
in  Hollow's  Copse  as  distinctly  as  if  it  ran  below  the  church- 
yard wall.' 

'  I  am  glad  it  is  so  still  a  night :  a  moaning  wind  or 
rushing  rain  would  vex  me  to  fever  just  now.' 

1  Why,  Shirley  ? ' 

'  Because  it  would  baffle  my  efforts  to  listen.' 

'  Do  you  listen  towards  the  Hollow  ?  ' 

'  Yes  ;  it  is  the  only  quarter  whence  we  can  hear  a  sound 
just  now.' 

'  The  only  one,  Shirley.' 

They  both  sat  near  the  window,  and  both  leaned  their 
arms  on  the  sill,  and  both  inclined  their  heads  towards  the 
open  lattice.  They  saw  each  other's  young  faces  by  the 
starlight,  and  that  dim  June  twilight  which  does  not  wholly 
fade  from  the  west  till  dawn  begins  to  break  in  the  east, 

'  Mr.  Helstone  thinks  we  have  no  idea  which  way  he  is 
gone,'  murmured  Miss  Keeldar,  '  nor  on  what  errand,  nor 
with  what  expectations,  nor  how  prepared ;  but  I  guess  much 
— do  not  you  ?  ' 

'  I  guess  something.' 

1  All  those  gentlemen — your  cousin  Moore  included — 
think  that  you  and  I  are  now  asleep  in  our  beds,  uncon* 
scious.' 

'  Caring  nothing  about  them — hoping  and  fearing  nothing 
for  them,'  added  Cai'oline. 

Both  kept  silence  for  full  half  an  hour.  The  night  was 
silent,  too ;  only  the  church-clock  measured  its  course  by 
quarters.  Some  words  were  interchanged  about  the  chill 
of  the  air ;  they  wrapped  their  scarves  closer  round  them, 
resumed  their  bonnets  which  they  had  removed,  and  again 
watched. 

Towards  midnight  the  teasing  monotonous  bark  of  the 
house-dog  disturbed  the  quietude  of  their  vigil.  Caroline 
rose,  and  made  her  way  noiselessly  through  the  dark  pas- 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT  345 

sages  to  the  kitchen,  intending  to  appease  him  with  a  piece 
of  bread ;  she  succeeded.  On  returning  to  the  dining-room, 
she  found  it  all  dark,  Miss  Keeldar  having  extinguished  the 
candle :  the  outline  of  her  shape  was  visible  near  the  still 
open  window,  leaning  out.  Miss  Helstone  asked  no  ques- 
tions :  she  stole  to  her  side.  The  dog  recommenced  barking 
furiously  ;  suddenly  he  stopped,  and  seemed  to  listen.  The 
occupants  of  the  dining-room  listened  too,  and  not  merely 
now  to  the  flow  of  the  mill-stream  :  there  was  a  nearer, 
though  a  muffled  sound  on  the  road  below  the  churchyard ; 
a  measured,  beating,  approaching  sound ;  a  dull  tramp  of 
marching  feet. 

It  drew  near.  Those  who  listened,  by  degrees  compre- 
hended its  extent.  It  was  not  the  tread  of  two,  nor  of  a 
dozen,  nor  of  a  score  of  men  :  it  was  the  tread  of  hundreds. 
They  could  see  nothing :  the  high  shrubs  of  the  garden 
formed  a  leafy  screen  between  them  and  the  road.  To  hear, 
however,  was  not  enough  ;  and  this  they  felt  as  the  troop 
trod  forwards,  and  seemed  actually  passing  the  Rectory. 
They  felt  it  more  when  a  human  voice — though  that  voice 
spoke  but  one  word — broke  the  hush  of  the  night. 

'Halt!' 

A  halt  followed :  the  march  was  arrested.  Then  came 
a  low  conference,  of  which  no  word  was  distinguishable  from 
the  dining-room. 

'  We  must  hear  this,'  said  Shirley. 

She  turned,  took  her  pistols  from  the  table,  silently  passed 
out  through  the  middle  window  of  the  dining-room,  which 
was,  in  fact,  a  glass-door,  stole  down  the  walk  to  the  garden- 
wall,  and  stood  listening  under  the  lilacs.  Caroline  would 
not  have  quitted  the  house  had  she  been  alone,  but  where 
Shirley  went  she  would  go.  She  glanced  at  the  weapon  on 
the  sideboard,  but  left  it  behind  her,  and  presently  stood  at 
her  friend's  side.  They  dared  not  look  over  the  wall,  for 
fear  of  being  seen  :  they  were  obliged  to  crouch  behind  it : 
they  heard  these  words  : — '  It  looks  a  rambling  old  building. 
Who  lives  in  it  besides  the  damned  parson  ?  ' 


346  SHIKLEY 

'  Only  three  women  :  his  niece  and  two  servants.' 

4  Do  you  know  where  they  sleep  ?  ' 

'  The  lasses  behind  :  the  niece  in  a  front  room.' 

'  And  Helstone  ?  ' 

1  Yonder  is  his  chamber.  He  uses  burning  a  light ;  but 
I  see  none  now.' 

'  Where  would  you  get  in  ?  ' 

'  If  I  were  ordered  to  do  his  job — and  he  desarves  it — I'd 
try  yond'  long  window  :  it  opens  to  the  dining-room  :  I 
could  grope  my  way  up-stairs,  and  I  know  his  chamber.' 

'  How  would  you  manage  about  the  women  folk  ? ' 

'  Let  'em  alone,  except  they  shrieked,  and  then  I'd  soon 
quieten  'em.  I  could  wish  to  find  the  old  chap  asleep :  if  he 
waked,  he'd  be  dangerous.' 

1  Has  he  arms  ? ' 

'  Fire-arms,  allus, — and  allus  leadened.' 

'  Then  you're  a  fool  to  stop  us  here  ;  a  shot  would  give 
the  alarm  :  Moore  would  be  on  us  before  we  could  turn 
round.  We  should  miss  our  main  object.' 

'You  might  go  on,  I  tell  you.  I'd  engage  Helstone 
alone.' 

A  pause.  One  of  the  party  dropped  some  weapon  which 
rang  on  the  stone  causeway  :  at  this  sound  the  Eectory  dog 
barked  again  furiously — fiercely. 

'  That  spoils  all ! '  said  the  voice  ;  '  he'll  awake  :  a  noise 
like  that  might  rouse  the  dead.  You  did  not  say  that  there 
was  a  dog.  Damn  you !  Forward  !  ' 

Forward  they  went, — tramp,  tramp, — with  mustering, 
manifold,  slow-filing  tread.  They  were  gone. 

Shirley  stood  erect ;  looked  over  the  wall,  along  the 
road. 

'  Not  a  soul  remains,'  she  said. 

She  stood  and  mused.  '  Thank  God ! '  was  the  next 
observation. 

Caroline  repeated  the  ejaculation,  not  in  so  steady  a  tone  : 
she  was  trembling  much  ;  her  heart  was  beating  fast  and 
thick  :  her  face  was  cold ;  her  forehead  damp. 


A   SUMMER   NIGHT  347 

1  Thank  God  for  us ! '  she  reiterated  ;  '  but  what  will 
happen  elsewhere  ?  They  have  passed  us  by  that  they  may 
make  sure  of  others.' 

1  They  have  done  well,'  returned  Shirley  with  composure : 
'  the  others  will  defend  themselves, — they  can  do  it, — they 
are  prepared  for  them  :  with  us  it  is  otherwise.  My  finger 
was  on  the  tiigger  of  this  pistol.  I  was  quite  ready  to  give 
that  man,  if  he  had  entered,  such  a  greeting  as  he  little 
calculated  on  ;  but  behind  him  followed  three  hundred :  I 
had  neither  three  hundred  hands  nor  three  hundred  weapons. 
I  could  not  have  effectually  protected  either  you,  myself,  or 
the  two  poor  women  asleep  under  that  roof ;  therefore  I 
again  earnestly  thank  God  for  insult  and  peril  escaped.' 

After  a  second  pause,  she  continued :  '  What  is  it  my 
duty  and  wisdom  to  do  next  ?  Not  to  stay  here  inactive,  I 
am  glad  to  say,  but  of  course  to  walk  over  to  the  Hollow.' 

'  To  the  Hollow,  Shirley  ?  ' 

'  To  the  Hollow.     Will  you  go  with  me  ? ' 

'  Where  those  men  are  gone  ?  ' 

1  They  have  taken  the  highway  :  we  should  not  encounter 
them  :  the  road  over  the  fields  is  as  safe,  silent,  and  solitary 
as  a  path  through  the  air  would  be.  Will  you  go  ?  ' 

1  Yes,'  was  the  answer,  given  mechanically,  not  because 
the  speaker  wished,  or  was  prepared  to  go ;  or,  indeed,  was 
otherwise  than  scared  at  the  prospect  of  going,  but  because 
she  felt  she  could  not  abandon  Shirley. 

'  Then  we  must  fasten  up  these  windows,  and  leave  all 
as  secure  as  we  can  behind  us.  Do  you  know  what  we  are 
going  for,  Gary  ? ' 

'  Yes— no — because  you  wish  it.' 

1  Is  that  all  ?  And  are  you  so  obedient  to  a  mere  caprice 
of  mine  ?  What  a  docile  wife  you  would  make  to  a  stern 
husband  ?  The  moon's  face  is  not  whiter  than  yours  at  this 
moment ;  and  the  aspen  at  the  gate  does  not  tremble  more 
than  your  busy  fingers  ;  and  so  tractable  and  terror-struck, 
and  dismayed  and  devoted,  you  would  follow  me  into  the 
thick  of  real  danger  !  Gary,  let  me  give  your  fidelity  a 


348  SHIRLEY 

motive :  we  are  going  for  Moore's  sake ;  to  see  if  we  can  be 
of  use  to  him  :  to  make  an  effort  to  warn  him  of  what  is 
coming.' 

'  To  be  sure  !  I  am  a  blind,  weak  fool,  and  you  are  acute 
and  sensible,  Shirley  !  I  will  go  with  you !  I  will  gladly  go 
with  you ! ' 

'  I  do  not  doubt  it.  You  would  die  blindly  and  meekly 
for  me,  but  you  would  intelligently  and  gladly  die  for  Moore  : 
but  in  truth  there  is  no  question  of  death  to-night, — we  run 
no  risk  at  all.' 

Caroline  rapidly  closed  shutter  and  lattice.  '  Do  not  fear 
that  I  shall  not  have  breath  to  run  as  fast  as  you  can  pos- 
sibly run,  Shirley.  Take  my  hand :  let  us  go  straight  across 
the  fields.' 

'  But  you  cannot  climb  walls  ?  ' 

'  To-night  I  can.' 

'  You  are  afraid  of  hedges,  and  the  beck  which  we  shall 
be  forced  to  cross  ? ' 

'  I  can  cross  it.' 

They  started :  they  ran.  Many  a  wall  checked  but  did 
not  baffle  them.  Shirley  was  surefooted  and  agile :  she 
could  spring  like  a  deer  when  she  chose.  Caroline,  more 
timid,  and  less  dexterous,  fell  once  or  twice,  and  bruised 
herself;  but  she  rose  again  directly,  saying  she  was  not 
hurt.  A  quickset  hedge  bounded  the  last  field :  they  lost 
time  in  seeking  a  gap  in  it :  the  aperture,  when  found,  was 
narrow,  but  they  worked  their  way  through  :  the  long  hair, 
the  tender  skin,  the  silks  and  the  muslins  suffered  ;  but  what 
was  chiefly  regretted  was  the  impediment  this  difficulty  had 
caused  to  speed.  On  the  other  side  they  met  the  beck,  flow- 
ing deep  in  a  rough  bed  :  at  this  point  a  narrow  plank  formed 
the  only  bridge  across  it.  Shirley  had  trodden  the  plank 
successfully  and  fearlessly  many  a  time  before  :  Caroline 
had  never  yet  dared  to  risk  the  transit. 

'  J  will  carry  you  across,'  said  Miss  Keeldar :  '  you  are 
light,  and  I  am  not  weak  :  let  me  try." 

'  If  I  fall  in,  you  may  fish  me  out,'  was  the  answer,  as  a 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT  349 

grateful  squeeze  compressed  her  hand.  Caroline,  without 
pausing,  trod  forward  on  the  trembling  plank  as  if  it  were 
a  continuation  of  the  firm  turf :  Shirley,  who  followed,  did 
not  cross  it  more  resolutely  or  safely.  In  their  present 
humour,  on  their  present  errand,  a  strong  and  foaming 
channel  would  have  been  a  barrier  to  neither.  At  the 
moment  they  were  above  the  control  either  of  fire  or  water : 
all  Stilbro'  Moor,  alight  and  aglow  with  bonfires,  would  not 
have  stopped  them,  nor  would  Calder  or  Aire  thundering  in 
flood.  Yet  one  sound  made  them  pause.  Scarce  had  they 
set  foot  on  the  solid  opposite  bank,  when  a  shot  spHt  the  air 
from  the  north.  One  second  elapsed.  Further  off,  burst  a 
like  note  in  the  south.  Within  the  space  of  three  minutes, 
similar  signals  boomed  in  the  east  and  west. 

'  I  thought  we  were  dead  at  the  first  explosion,'  observed 
Shirley,  drawing  a  long  breath.  '  I  felt  myself  hit  in  the 
temples,  and  I  concluded  your  heart  was  pierced  ;  but  the 
reiterated  voice  was  an  explanation  :  those  are  signals— it  is 
their  way — the  attack  must  be  near.  We  should  have  had 
wings :  our  feet  have  not  borne  us  swiftly  enough.' 

A  portion  of  the  copse  was  now  to  clear  :  when  they 
emerged  from  it,  the  mill  lay  just  below  them  :  they  could 
look  down  upon  the  buildings,  the  yard ;  they  could  see  the 
road  beyond.  And  the  first  glance  in  that  direction  told 
Shirley  she  was  right  in  her  conjecture  :  they  were  already 
too  late  to  give  warning  :  it  had  taken  more  time  than  they 
calculated  on  to  overcome  the  various  obstacles  which 
embarrassed  the  short  cut  across  the  fields. 

The  road,  which  should  have  been  white,  was  dark  with 
a  moving  mass :  the  rioters  were  assembled  in  front  of  the 
closed  yard  gates,  and  a  single  figure  stood  within,  appa- 
rently addressing  them :  the  mill  itself  was  perfectly  black 
and  still ;  there  was  neither  life,  light,  nor  motion  around  it. 

'  Surely  he  is  prepared  :  surely  that  is  not  Moore  meeting 
them  alone  ? '  whispered  Shirley. 

'  It  is — we  must  go  to  him  !     I  will  go  to  him.' 

'  That  you  will  not.' 


350  SHIBLEY 

'  Why  did  I  come,  then  ?  I  came  only  for  him.  I  shall 
join  him.' 

'  Fortunately,  it  is  out  of  your  power  :  there  is  no  entrance 
to  the  yard.' 

'  There  is  a  small  entrance  at  the  back,  besides  the  gates 
in  front :  it  opens  by  a  secret  method  which  I  know — I  will 
try  it.' 

'  Not  with  my  leave.' 

Miss  Keeldar  clasped  her  round  the  waist  with  both  arms 
and  held  her  back. 

'  Not  one  step  shall  you  stir,'  she  went  on  authoritatively. 
'  At  this  moment,  Moore  would  be  both  shocked  and  embar- 
rassed, if  he  saw  either  you  or  me.  Men  never  want  women 
near  them  in  time  of  real  danger.' 

'  I  would  not  trouble — I  would  help  him,'  was  the  reply. 

'  How ?  By  inspiring  him  with  heroism?  Pooh  !  These 
are  not  the  days  of  chivalry  :  it  is  not  a  tilt  at  a  tournament 
we  are  going  to  behold,  but  a  struggle  about  money,  and 
food,  and  life.' 

1  It  is  natural  that  I  should  be  at  his  side." 

1  As  queen  of  his  heart  ?  His  mill  is  his  lady-love,  Gary  ! 
Backed  by  his  factory  and  his  frames,  he  has  all  the 
encouragement  he  wants  or  can  know.  It  is  not  for  love  or 
beauty,  but  for  ledger  and  broadcloth,  he  is  going  to  break  a 
spear.  Don't  be  sentimental ;  Robert  is  not  so.' 

'  I  could  help  him — I  will  seek  him.' 

'  Off  then — I  let  you  go — seek  Moore :  you'll  not  find 
him.' 

She  loosened  her  hold.  Caroline  sped  like  levelled  shaft 
from  bent  bow ;  after  her  rang  a  jesting,  gibing  laugh. 

'  Look  well  there  is  no  mistake ! '  was  the  warning 
given. 

But  there  was  a  mistake.  Miss  Helstone  paused,  hesi- 
tated, gazed.  The  figure  had  suddenly  retreated  from  the 
gate,  and  was  running  back  hastily  to  the  mill. 

'  Make  haste,  Lina !  '  cried  Shirley  :  '  meet  him  before  he 
enters.' 


A  SUMMEE  NIGHT  351 

Caroline  slowly  returned. 

1  It  is  not  Eobert,'  she  said  :  '  it  has  neither  his  height, 
form,  nor  bearing.' 

'  I  saw  it  was  not  Robei't  when  I  let  you  go.  How  could 
you  imagine  it  ?  It  is  a  shabby  little  figure  of  a  private 
soldier  :  they  had  posted  him  as  sentinel.  He  is  safe  in  the 
mill  now  :  I  saw  the  door  open  and  admit  him.  My  mind 
grows  easier :  Robert  is  prepared  ;  our  warning  would  have 
been  superfluous,  and  now  I  am  thankful  we  came  too  late 
to  give  it :  it  has  saved  us  the  trouble  of  a  scene.  How  fine 
to  have  entered  the  counting-house  "  toute  6perdue,"  and  to 
have  found  oneself  in  presence  of  Messrs.  Armitage  and 
Ramsden  smoking,  Malone  swaggering,  your  uncle  sneering, 
Mr.  Sykes  sipping  a  cordial,  and  Moore  himself  in  his  cold 
man-of -business  vein  :  I  am  glad  we  missed  it  all.' 

'  I  wonder  if  there  are  many  in  the  mill,  Shirley ! ' 

'  Plenty  to  defend  it.  The  soldiers  we  have  twice  seen 
to-day  were  going  there,  no  doubt,  and  the  group  we  noticed 
surrounding  your  cousin  in  the  fields  will  be  with  him.' 

'  What  are  they  doing  now,  Shirley  ?  What  is  that 
noise  ? ' 

'  Hatchets  and  crow-bars  against  the  yard-gates :  they 
are  forcing  them.  Are  you  afraid  ?  ' 

4  No ;  but  my  heart  throbs  fast ;  I  have  a  difficulty  in 
standing :  I  will  sit  down.  Do  you  feel  unmoved  ?  ' 

'  Hardly  that — but  I  am  glad  I  came  :  we  shall  see  what 
transpires  with  our  own  eyes  :  we  are  here  on  the  spot,  and 
none  know  it.  Instead  of  amazing  the  curate,  the  clothier, 
and  the  corndealer  with  a  romantic  rush  on  the  stage,  we 
stand  alone  with  the  friendly  night,  its  mute  stars,  and  these 
whispering  trees,  whose  report  our  friends  will  not  come  to 
gather.' 

'  Shirley — Shirley,  the  gates  are  down  !  That  crash  was 
like  the  felling  of  great  trees.  Now  they  are  pouring 
through.  They  will  break  down  the  mill-doors  as  they  have 
broken  the  gate :  what  can  Robert  do  against  so  many  ? 
Would  to  God  I  were  a  little  nearer  him — could  hear  him 


352  SHIRLEY 

speak— could  speak  to  him !  With  my  will — my  longing  to 
serve  him — I  could  not  be  a  useless  burden  in  his  way :  I 
could  be  turned  to  some  account.' 

1  They  come  on ! '  cried  Shirley.  '  How  steadily  they 
march  in  !  There  is  discipline  in  their  ranks — I  will  not  say 
there  is  courage  :  hundreds  against  tens  are  no  proof  of  that 
quality  ;  but '  (she  dropped  her  voice)  '  there  is  suffering  and 
desperation  enough  amongst  them— these  goads  will  urge 
them  forwards.' 

1  Forwards  against  Robert — and  they  hate  him.  Shirley, 
is  there  much  danger  they  will  win  the  day  ? ' 

'  We  shall  see.  Moore  and  Helstone  are  of  "  earth's  first 
blood  " — no  bunglers — no  cravens ' 

A  crash — smash — shiver — stopped  their  whispers.  A 
simultaneously-hurled  volley  of  stones  had  saluted  the  broad 
front  of  the  mill,  with  all  its  windows ;  and  now  every  pane 
of  every  lattice  lay  in  shattered  and  pounded  fragments.  A 
yell  followed  this  demonstration — a  rioters'  yell — a  North- 
of-England — a  Yorkshire — a  West  Riding — a  West-Riding- 
clothing-district-of-Yorkshire  rioters'  yell.  You  never  heard 
that  sound,  perhaps,  reader  ?  So  much  the  better  for  your 
ears — perhaps  for  your  heart ;  since,  if  it  rends  the  air  in 
hate  to  yourself,  or  to  the  men  or  principles  you  approve, 
the  interests  to  which  you  wish  well,  Wrath  wakens  to  the 
cry  of  Hate :  the  Lion  shakes  his  mane,  and  rises  to  the 
howl  of  the  Hyena :  Caste  stands  up,  ireful,  against  Caste ; 
and  the  indignant,  wronged  spirit  of  the  Middle  Rank  bears 
down  in  zeal  and  scorn  on  the  famished  and  furious  mass  of 
the  Operative  Class.  It  is  difficult  to  be  tolerant— difficult 
to  be  just — in  such  moments. 

Caroline  rose ;  Shirley  put  her  arm  round  her :  they 
stood  together  as  still  as  the  straight  stems  of  two  trees. 
That  yell  was  a  long  one,  and  when  it  ceased,  the  night  was 
yet  full  of  the  swaying  and  murmuring  of  a  crowd. 

'  What  next  ?  '  was  the  question  of  the  listeners.  Nothing 
came  yet.  The  mill  remained  mule  as  a  mausoleum. 

'  He  cannot  be  alone  !  '  whispered  Caroline. 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT  353 

'  I  would  stake  all  I  have,  that  he  is  as  little  alone  as  he 
is  alarmed,'  responded  Shirley. 

Shots  were  discharged  by  the  rioters.  Had  the  defenders 
waited  for  this  signal  ?  It  seemed  so.  The  hitherto  inert 
and  passive  mill  woke  :  fire  flashed  from  its  empty  window- 
frames  ;  a  volley  of  musketry  pealed  sharp  through  the 
Hollow. 

'  Moore  speaks  at  last !  '  said  Shirley,  '  and  he  seems  to 
have  the  gift  of  tongues  ;  that  was  not  a  single  voice.' 

'  He  has  been  fovbeaiing ;  no  one  can  accuse  him  of  rash- 
ness,' alleged  Caroline  :  '  their  discharge  preceded  his ;  they 
broke  his  gates  and  his  windows  ;  they  fired  at  his  garrison 
before  he  repelled  them.' 

What  was  going  on  now  ?  It  seemed  difficult,  in  the 
darkness,  to  distinguish,  but  something  terrible,  a  still-renew- 
ing tumult,  was  obvious ;  fierce  attacks,  desperate  repulses  ; 
the  mill-yard,  the  mill  itself,  was  full  of  battle-movement : 
there  was  scarcely  any  cessation  now  of  the  discharge  of 
firearms  ;  and  there  was  struggling,  rushing,  trampling,  and 
shouting  between.  The  aim  of  the  assailants  seemed  to  be 
to  enter  tho  mill,  that  of  the  defendants  to  beat  them  off. 
They  heard  the  rebel  leader  cry,  '  To  the  back,  lads  ! '  They 
heard  a  voice  retort,  '  Come  round,  we  will  meet  you  ! ' 

'  To  the  counting-house  ! '  was  the  order  again. 

'  Welcome  !  —We  shall  have  you  there  !  '  was  the 
response.  And  accordingly,  the  fiercest  blaze  that  had  jet 
glowed,  the  loudest  rattle  that  had  yet  been  heard,  burst 
from  the  counting-house  front,  when  the  mass  of  rioters 
rushed  up  to  it. 

The  voice  that  had  spoken  was  Moore's  own  voice.  They 
could  tell  by  its  tones  that  his  soul  was  now  warm  with  the 
conflict :  they  could  guess  that  the  fighting  animal  was 
roused  in  every  one  of  those  men  there  struggling  together, 
and  was  for  the  time  quite  paramount  above  the  rational 
human  being. 

Both  the  girls  felt  their  faces  glow  and  their  pulses  throb  : 
both  knew  they  would  do  no  good  by  rushing  down  into  the 


354  SHIRLEY 

m6lec  :  they  desired  neither  to  deal  nor  to  receive  blows  ;  but 
they  could  not  have  run  away — Caroline  no  more  than 
Shirley  ;  they  could  not  have  fainted ;  they  could  not  have 
taken  their  eyes  from  the  dim,  terrible  scene — from  the  mass 
of  cloud,  of  smoke — the  musket-lightning — for  the  world. 

'  How  and  when  would  it  end  ? '  was  the  demand  throb- 
bing in  their  throbbing  pulses.  '  Would  a  juncture  arise  in 
which  they  could  be  useful  ?  '  was  what  they  waited  to  see  ; 
for,  though  Shirley  put  off  their  too-late  arrival  with  a  jest, 
and  was  ever  ready  to  satirize  her  own  or  any  other  person's 
enthusiasm,  she  would  have  given  a  farm  of  her  best  land 
for  a  chance  of  rendering  good  service. 

The  chance  was  not  vouchsafed  her ;  the  looked-for 
juncture  never  came  :  it  was  not  likely.  Moore  had  expected 
this  attack  for  days,  perhaps  weeks  :  he  was  prepared  for  it 
at  every  point.  He  had  fortified  and  garrisoned  his  mill, 
which  in  itself  was  a  strong  building :  he  was  a  cool,  brave 
man :  he  stood  to  the  defence  with  unflinching  firmness  ; 
those  who  were  with  him  caught  his  spirit,  and  copied  his 
demeanour.  The  rioters  had  never  been  so  met  before.  At 
other  mills  they  had  attacked,  they  had  found  no  resistance ; 
an  organised,  resolute  defence  was  what  they  never  dreamed 
of  encountering.  When  their  leaders  saw  the  steady  fire 
kept  up  from  the  mill,  witnessed  the  composure  and  deter- 
mination of  its  owner,  heard  themselves  coolly  defied  and 
invited  on  to  death,  and  beheld  their  men  falling  wounded 
round  them,  they  felt  that  nothing  was  to  be  done  here.  In 
haste,  they  mustered  their  forces,  drew  them  away  from  the 
building  :  a  roll  was  called  over,  in  which  the  men  answered 
to  figures  instead  of  names  :  they  dispersed  wide  over  the 
fields,  leaving  silence  and  ruin  behind  them.  The  attack, 
from  its  commencement  to  its  termination,  had  not  occupied 
an  hour. 

Day  was  by  this  time  approaching :  the  west  was  dim, 
the  east  beginning  to  gleam.  It  would  have  seemed  that  the 
girls  who  had  watched  this  conflict  would  now  wish  to  hasten 
to  the  victors,  on  whose  side  all  their  interest  had  been 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT  355 

enlisted  ;  but  they  only  very  cautiously  approached  the  now 
battered  mill,  and,  when  suddenly  a  number  of  soldiers  and 
gentlemen  appeared  at  the  great  door  opening  into  the  yard, 
they  quickly  stepped  aside  into  a  shed,  the  deposit  of  old 
iron  and  timber,  whence  they  could  see  without  being  seen. 

It  was  no  cheering  spectacle  :  these  premises  were  now 
a  mere  blot  of  desolation  on  the  fresh  front  of  the  summer- 
dawn.  All  the  copse  up  the  Hollow  was  shady  and  dewy 
the  hill  at  its  head  was  green  ;  but  just  here  in  the  centre  of 
the  sweet  glen,  Discord,  broken  loose  in  the  night  from 
control,  had  beaten  the  ground  with  his  stamping  hoofs,  and 
left  it  waste  and  pulverised.  The  mill  yawned  all  ruinous 
with  unglazed  frames ;  the  yard  was  thickly  bestrewn  with 
stones  and  brickbats,  and,  close  under  the  mill,  with  the 
glittering  fragments  of  the  shattered  windows ;  muskets  and 
other  weapons  lay  here  and  there  ;  more  than  one  deep 
crimson  stain  was  visible  on  the  gravel ;  a  human  body  lay 
quiet  on  its  face  near  the  gates ;  and  five  or  six  wounded 
men  writhed  and  moaned  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Miss  Keeldar's  countenance  changed  at  this  view  :  it  was 
the  aftertaste  of  the  battle,  death  and  pain  replacing  excite- 
ment and  exertion  :  it  was  the  blackness  the  bright  fire 
leaves  when  its  blaze  is  sunk,  its  warmth  failed,  and  its 
glow  faded. 

1  This  is  what  I  wished  to  prevent/  she  said,  in  a  voice 
whose  cadence  betrayed  the  altered  impulse  of  her  heart. 

'  But  you  could  not  prevent  it ;  you  did  your  best ;  it  was 
in  vain,'  said  Caroline,  comfortingly.  '  Don't  grieve,  Shirley.' 

'  I  am  sorry  for  those  poor  fellows,'  was  the  answer, 
while  the  spark  in  her  glance  dissolved  to  dew.  '  Are  any 
within  the  mill  hurt,  I  wonder  ?  Is  that  your  uncle  ? ' 

'  It  is,  and  there  is  Mr.  Malone,  and  oh,  Shirley  !  there 
is  Robert ! ' 

1  Well '  (resuming  her  former  tone),  '  don't  squeeze  your 
fingers  quite  into  my  hand  :  I  see,  there  is  nothing  wonderful 
in  that.  We  knew  he,  at  least,  was  here,  whoever  might  be 
absent.' 


356  SHIRLEY 

'  He  is  coming  here  towards  us,  Shirley ! ' 

'  Towards  the  purnp,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  purpose  of 
washing  his  hands  and  his  forehead,  which  has  got  a  scratch, 
I  perceive.' 

'  He  bleeds,  Shirley  :  don't  hold  me ;  I  must  go.' 

'  Not  a  step.' 

1  He  is  hurt,  Shirley ! ' 

'  Fiddlestick ! ' 

'  But  I  must  go  to  him  :  I  wish  to  go  so  much  :  I  cannot 
bear  to  be  restrained.' 

1  What  for  ?  ' 

'  To  speak  to  him,  to  ask  how  he  is,  and  what  I  can  do 
for  him  ?  ' 

'  To  tease  and  annoy  him  ;  to  make  a  spectacle  of  your- 
self and  him  before  those  soldiers,  Mr.  Malone,  your  uncle, 
et  cetera.  Would  he  like  it,  think  you  ?  Would  you  like 
to  remember  it  a  week  hence  ?  ' 

'  Am  I  always  to  be  curbed  and  kept  down  ?  '  demanded 
Caroline,  a  little  passionately. 

'  For  his  sake,  yes.  And  still  more  for  your  own.  I  tell 
you,  if  you  showed  yourself  now,  you  would  repent  it  an 
hour  hence,  and  so  would  Robert.' 

'  You  think  he  would  not  like  it,  Shirley  ?  ' 

'  Far  less  than  he  would  like  our  stopping  him  to  say 
good-night,  which  you  were  so  sore  about.' 

'  But  that  was  all  play  ;  there  was  no  danger.' 

'  And  this  is  serious  work  :  he  must  be  unmolested.' 

'  I  only  wish  to  go  to  him  because  he  is  my  cousin — you 
understand  ? ' 

'  I  quite  understand.  But  now,  watch  him.  He  has 
bathed  his  forehead,  and  the  blood  has  ceased  trickling :  his 
hurt  is  really  a  mere  graze :  I  can  see  it  from  hence  :  he  is 
going  to  look  after  the  wounded  men.' 

Accordingly  Mr.  Moore  and  Mr.  Helstone  went  round  the 
yard,  examining  each  prostrate  form.  They  then  gave 
directions  to  have  the  wounded  taken  up  and  carried  into 
the  mill.  This  duty  being  performed,  Joe  Scott  was  ordered 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT  357 

to  saddle  his  master's  horse,  and  Mr.  Ht  Istone's  pony,  and 
the  two  gentlemen  rode  away  full  gallop,  to  seek  surgical 
aid  in  different  directions. 

Caroline  was  not  yet  pacified. 

'  Shirley,  Shirley,  I  should  have  liked  to  speak  one  word 
to  him  before  he  went,'  she  murmured,  while  the  tears 
gathered  glittering  in  her  eyes. 

1  Why  do  you  cry,  Lina  ? '  asked  Miss  Keeldar  a  little 
sternly.  '  You  ought  to  be  glad  instead  of  sorry.  Robert 
has  escaped  any  serious  harm ;  he  is  victorious ;  he  has  been 
cool  and  brave  in  combat ;  he  is  now  considerate  in  triumph  : 
is  this  a  time — are  these  causes  for  weeping  ?  ' 

'You  do  not  know  what  I  have  in  my  heart,'  pleaded  the 
other  :  '  what  pain,  what  distraction  ;  nor  whence  it  arises. 
I  can  understand  that  you  should  exult  in  Robert's  greatness 
and  goodness ;  so  do  I,  in  one  sense,  but,  in  another,  I  feel 
so  miserable.  I  am  too  far  removed  from  him  :  I  used  to  be 
nearer.  Let  me  alone,  Shirley  :  do  let  me  cry  a  few  minutes ; 
it  relieves  me.' 

Miss  Keeldar,  feeling  her  tremble  in  every  limb,  ceased 
to  expostulate  with  her :  she  went  out  of  the  shed,  and  left 
her  to  weep  in  peace.  It  was  the  best  plan :  in  a  few 
minutes  Caroline  rejoined  her,  much  calmer :  she  said  with 
her  natural,  docile,  gentle  manner — '  Come,  Shirley,  we  will 
go  home  now.  I  promise  not  to  try  to  see  Robert  again  till 
he  asks  for  me.  I  never  will  try  to  push  myself  on  him.  I 
thank  you  for  restraining  me  just  now.' 

'  I  did  it  with  a  good  intention,'  returned  Miss  Keeldar. 
'  Now,  dear  Lina,'  she  continued  ;  '  let  us  turn  our  faces  to 
the  cool  morning  breeze,  and  walk  very  quietly  back  to  the 
Rectory.  We  will  steal  in  as  we  stole  out :  none  shall  know 
where  we  have  been,  or  what  we  have  seen  to-night :  neither 
taunt  nor  misconstruction  can  consequently  molest  us.  To- 
morrow we  will  see  Robert,  and  be  of  good  cheer  ;  but  I  will 
say  no  more,  lest  I  should  begin  to  cry  too.  I  seem  hard 
towards  you,  but  I  am  uot  so.' 


CHAPTER  XX 

TO-MORROW 

THE  two  girls  met  no  living  soul  on  their  way  back  to  the 
Rectory ;  they  let  themselves  in  noiselessly ;  they  stole  up- 
stairs unheard  :  the  breaking  morning  gave  them  what  light 
they  needed.  Shirley  sought  her  couch  immediately  ;  and, 
though  the  room  was  strange— for  she  had  never  slept  at  the 
Rectory  before — and  though  the  recent  scene  was  one  un- 
paralleled for  excitement  and  terror  by  any  it  had  hitherto 
been  her  lot  to  witness,  yet,  scarce  was  her  head  laid  on  the 
pillow,  ere  a  deep,  refreshing  sleep  closed  her  eyes,  and 
calmed  her  senses. 

Perfect  health  was  Shirley's  enviable  portion ;  though 
warm-hearted  and  sympathetic,  she  was  not  nervous  :  power- 
ful emotions  could  rouse  and  sway,  without  exhausting,  her 
spirit :  the  tempest  troubled  and  shook  her  while  it  lasted  ; 
but  it  left  her  elasticity  unbent,  and  her  freshness  quite 
unblighted.  As  every  day  brought  her  stimulating  emotion, 
so  every  night  yielded  her  recreating  rest.  Caroline  now 
watched  her  sleeping,  and  read  the  serenity  of  her  mind  in 
the  beauty  of  her  happy  countenance. 

For  herself,  being  of  a  different  temperament,  she  could 
not  sleep.  The  common-place  excitement  of  the  tea-drinking 
and  school-gathering,  would  alone  have  sufficed  to  make  her 
restless  all  night :  the  effect  of  the  terrible  drama  which  had 
ust  been  enacted  before  her  eyes  was  not  likely  to  quit  her 
for  days.  It  was  vain  even  to  try  to  retain  a  recumbent 
posture  :  she  sat  up  by  Shirley's  side,  counting  the  slow 
uiinutes,  and  watching  the  June  sun  mount  the  heavens. 


TO-MOBROW  359 

Life  wastes  fast  in  such  vigils  as  Caroline  had  of  late  but 
too  often  kept ;  vigils  during  which  the  mind — having  no 
pleasant  food  to  nourish  it — no  manna  of  hope — no  hivecl- 
honcy  of  joyous  memories — tries  to  live  on  the  meagre  diet 
of  wishes,  and  failing  to  derive  thence  either  delight  or  sup- 
port, and  feeling  itself  ready  to  perish  with  craving  want, 
turns  to  philosophy,  to  resolution,  to  resignation  ;  calls  on 
all  these  gods  for  aid,  calls  vainly — is  unheard,  unhelped, 
and  languishes. 

Caroline  was  a  Christian  ;  therefore  in  trouble  she  framed 
many  a  prayer  after  the  Christian  creed  ;  preferred  it  with 
deep  earnestness  ;  begged  for  patience,  strength,  relief.  This 
world,  however,  we  all  know,  is  the  scene  of  trial  and  pro- 
bation ;  and,  for  any  favourable  result  her  petitions  had  yet 
wrought,  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  were  unheard  and 
unaccepted.  She  believed,  sometimes,  that  God  had  turned 
His  face  from  her.  At  moments  she  was  a  Calvinist,  and, 
sinking  into  the  gulf  of  religious  despair,  she  saw  darkening 
over  her  the  doom  of  reprobation. 

Most  people  have  had  a  period  or  periods  in  their  lives 
when  they  have  felt  thus  forsaken  ;  when,  having  long  hoped 
against  hope,  and  still  seen  the  day  of  fruition  deferred,  their 
hearts  have  truly  sickened  within  them.  This  is  a  terrible 
hour,  but  it  is  often  that  darkest  point  which  precedes  the 
rise  of  day ;  that  turn  of  the  year  when  the  icy  January 
wind  carries  over  the  waste  at  once  the  dirge  of  departing 
winter,  and  the  prophecy  of  coming  spring.  The  perishing 
birds,  however,  cannot  thus  understand  the  blast  before 
which  they  shiver  ;  and  as  little  can  the  suffering  soul 
recognise,  in  the  climax  of  its  affliction,  the  dawn  of  its 
deliverance.  Yet  let  whoever  grieves  still  cling  fast  to  love 
and  faith  in  God  :  God  will  never  deceive,  never  finally 
desert  him.  '  Whom  He  loveth,  He  chasteneth.'  These 
words  are  true,  and  should  not  be  forgotten. 

The  household  was  astir  at  last  :  the  servants  were  up ; 
the  shutters  were  opened  below.  Caroline,  as  she  quitted 
the  couch,  which  had  been  but  a  thorny  one  to  her,  felt  that 


360  SHIRLEY 

revival  of  spirits  which  the  return  of  day,  of  action,  gives  to 
all  but  the  wholly  despairing  or  actually  dying :  she  dressed 
herself,  as  usual,  carefully,  trying  so  to  arrange  her  hair  and 
attire  that  nothing  of  the  forlornness  she  felt  at  heart  should 
be  visible  externally  :  she  looked  as  fresh  as  Shirley  when 
both  were  dressed,  only  that  Miss  Keeldar's  eyes  were  lively, 
and  Miss  Helstone's  languid. 

'  To-day,  I  shall  have  much  to  say  to  Moore,'  were 
Shirley's  first  words  :  and  you  could  see  in  her  face  that  life 
was  full  of  interest,  expectation,  and  occupation  for  her. 
'  He  will  have  to  undergo  cross-examination,'  she  added  :  '  I 
daresay  he  thinks  he  has  outwitted  me  cleverly.  And  this  is 
the  way  men  deal  with  women :  still  concealing  danger  from 
them  :  thinking,  I  suppose,  to  spare  them  pain.  They 
imagined  we  little  knew  where  they  were  to-night ;  we  know 
they  little  conjectured  where  we  were.  Men,  I  believe,  fancy 
women's  minds  something  like  those  of  children.  Now,  that 
is  a  mistake.' 

This  was  said  as  she  stood  at  the  glass,  training  her 
naturally  waved  hair  into  curls,  by  twining  it  round  her 
fingers.  She  took  up  the  theme  again  five  minutes  after,  as 
Caroline  fastened  her  dress  and  clasped  her  girdle. 

'  If  men  could  see  us  as  we  really  are,  they  would  be  a 
little  amazed  ;  but  the  cleverest,  the  acutest  men  are  often 
under  an  illusion  about  women  :  they  do  not  read  them  in  a 
true  light :  they  misapprehend  them,  both  for  good  and  evil : 
their  good  woman  is  a  queer  thing,  half  doll,  half  angel ;  their 
bad  woman  almost  always  a  fiend.  Then  to  hear  them  fall 
into  ecstasies  with  each  other's  creations,  worshipping  the 
heroine  of  such  a  poem — novel — drama,  thinking  it  fine  — 
divine  !  Fine  and  divine  ib  may  be,  but  often  quite  artificial 
—false  as  the  rose  in  my  best  bonnet  there.  If  I  spoke 
all  I  think  on  this  point ;  if  I  gave  my  real  opinion  of  some 
first-rate  female  characters  in  first-rate  works,  where  should 
I  be?  Dead  under  a  cairn  of  avenging  stones  in  half-au- 
hour.' 

1  Shirley,  you  chatter  so,  I  can't  fasten   you :  be   still. 


TO-MORROW  361 

And  after  all,  author's  heroines  are  almost  as  good   as 
authoress's  heroes.' 

4  Not  at  all :  women  read  men  more  truly  than  men  read 
women.  I'll  prove  that  in  a  magazine  paper  some  day  when 
I've  time ;  only  it  will  never  be  inserted :  it  will  be  "  de- 
clined with  thanks,"  and  left  for  me  at  the  publisher's.' 

'  To  be  sure :  you  could  not  write  cleverly  enough ;  you 
don't  know  enough  ;  you  are  not  learned,  Shirley.' 

'  God  knows,  I  can't  contradict  you,  Gary :  I'm  as 
ignorant  as  a  stone.  There's  one  comfort,  however,  you  are 
not  much  better.' 

They  descended  to  breakfast. 

'  I  wonder  how  Mrs.  Pryor  and  Hortense  Moore  have 
passed  the  night,'  said  Caroline,  as  she  made  the  coffee. 
'  Selfish  being  that  I  am  !  I  never  thought  of  either  of  them 
till  just  now  :  they  will  have  heard  all  the  tumult,  Pieldhead 
and  the  cottage  are  so  near  ;  and  Hortense  is  timid  in  such 
matters  :  so  no  doubt  is  Mrs.  Pryor.' 

'  Take  my  word  for  it,  Lina,  Moore  will  have  contrived  to 
get  his  sister  out  of  the  way :  she  went  home  with  Miss 
Mann  ;  he  will  have  quartered  her  there  for  the  night.  As 
to  Mrs.  Pryor,  I  own  I  am  uneasy  about  her ;  but  in  another 
half-hour  we  will  be  with  her.' 

By  this  time  the  news  of  what  had  happened  at  the 
Hollow  was  spread  all  over  the  neighbourhood.  Fanny, 
who  had  been  to  Fieldhead  to  fetch  the  milk,  returned  in 
panting  haste,  with  tidings  that  there  had  been  a  battle  in 
the  night  at  Mr.  Moore's  mill,  and  that  some  said  twenty 
men  were  killed.  Eliza,  during  Fanny's  absence,  had  been 
apprised  by  the  butcher's  boy  that  the  Mill  was  burnt  to  the 
ground.  Both  women  rushed  into  the  parlour  to  announce 
these  terrible  facts  to  the  ladies,  terminating  their  clear  and 
accurate  narrative  by  the  assertion  that  they  were  sure 
master  must  have  been  in  it  all :  lie  and  Thomas,  the  clerk, 
they  were  confident,  must  have  gone  last  night  to  join  Mr 
Moore  and  the  soldiers  :  Mr.  Malone,  too,  had  not  been 
heard  of  at  his  lodgings  since  yesterday  afternoon  ;  and  Joe 


362  SHIRLEY 

Scott's  wife  and  family  were  in  the  greatest  distress, 
wondering  what  had  become  of  their  head. 

Scarcely  was  this  information  imparted  when  a  knock  at 
the  kitchen-door  announced  the  Fieldhead  errand-boy, 
arrived  in  hot  haste,  bearing  a  billet  from  Mrs.  Pryor.  It 
was  hurriedly  written,  and  urged  Miss  Keeldar  to  return 
directly,  as  the  neighbourhood  and  the  house  seemed  likely 
to  be  all  in  confusion,  and  orders  would  have  to  be  given 
which  the  mistress  of  the  hall  alone  could  regulate.  In  a 
postscript  it  was  entreated  that  Miss  Helstone  might  not  be 
left  alone  at  the  Eectory  :  she  had  better,  it  was  suggested> 
accompany  Miss  Keeldar. 

'  There  are  not  two  opinions  on  that  head,'  said  Shirley, 
as  she  tied  on  her  own  bonnet,  and  then  ran  to  fetch 
Caroline's. 

'  But  what  will  Fanny  and  Eliza  do  ?  And  if  my  uncle 
returns  ? ' 

1  Your  uncle  will  not  return  yet ;  he  has  other  fish  to  fry ; 
he  will  be  galloping  backwards  and  forwards  from  Briar- 
field  to  Stilbro'  all  day,  rousing  the  magistrates  in  the  court- 
house, and  the  officers  at  the  barracks ;  and  Fanny  and 
Eliza  can  have  in  Joe  Scott's  and  the  clerk's  wives  to  bear 
them  company.  Besides,  of  course,  there  is  no  real  danger 
to  be  apprehended  now  :  weeks  will  elapse  before  the  rioters 
can  again  rally,  or  plan  any  other  attempt ;  and  I  am  much 
mistaken  if  Moore  and  Mr.  Helstone  will  not  take  advantage 
of  last  night's  outbreak  to  quell  them  altogether  :  they  will 
fi'ighten  the  authorities  of  Stilbro'  into  energetic  measures. 
I  only  hope  they  will  not  be  too  severe — not  pursue  the 
discomfited  too  relentlessly.' 

1  Robert  will  not  be  cruel ;  we  saw  that  last  night,'  said 
Caroline. 

'  But  he  will  be  hard,'  retorted  Shirley  ;  '  and  so  will  your 
uncle.' 

As  they  hurried  along  the  meadow  and  plantation -path 
to  Fieldhead,  they  saw  the  distant  highway  already  alive 
with  an  unwonted  flow  of  equestrians  arid  pedestrians, 


TO-MOKKOW  363 

tending  in  the  direction  of  the  usually  solitary  Hollow.  On 
reaching  the  hall,  they  found  the  backyard  gates  open,  and 
the  court  and  kitchen  seemed  crowded  with  excited  milk- 
f etchers— men,  women,  and  children,  whom  Mrs.  Gill,  the 
housekeeper,  appeared  vainly  persuading  to  take  their  milk- 
cans  and  depart.  (It  is,  or  was,  by-the-by,  the  custom  in  the 
north  of  England  for  the  cottagers  on  a  country  squire's 
estate  to  receive  their  supplies  of  milk  and  butter  from  the 
dairy  of  the  Manor-House,  on  whose  pastures  a  herd  of 
milch-kine  was  usually  fed  for  the  convenience  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Miss  Keeldar  owned  such  a  herd — all  deep- 
dewlapped,  Craven  cows,  reared  on  the  sweet  herbage  and 
clear  waters  of  bonnie  Airedale ;  and  very  proud  she  was  of 
their  sleek  aspect  and  high  condition.)  Seeing  now  the  state 
of  matters,  and  that  it  was  desirable  to  effect  a  clearance  oi 
the  premises,  Shirley  stepped  in  amongst  the  gossiping 
groups.  She  bade  them  good-morning  with  a  certain  frank, 
tranquil  ease — the  natural  characteristic  of  her  manner  when 
she  addressed  numbers  ;  especially  if  those  numbers  belonged 
to  the  working-class  :  she  was  cooler  amongst  her  equals, 
and  rather  proud  to  those  above  her.  She  then  asked  them 
if  they  had  all  got  their  milk  measured  out,  and  understand- 
ing that  they  had,  she  further  observed  that  she  '  wondered 
what  they  were  waiting  for,  then.' 

'  We're  just  talking  a  bit  over  this  battle  there  has  been 
at  your  mill,  Mistress,'  replied  a  man. 

'  Talking  a  bit !  Just  like  you  ! '  said  Shirley.  '  It  is  a 
queer  thing  all  the  world  is  so  fond  of  talking  over  events  : 
you  talk  if  anybody  dies  suddenly  ;  you  talk  if  a  fire  breaks 
out ;  you  talk  if  a  mill-owner  fails ;  you  talk  if  he's 
murdered.  What  good  does  your  talking  do  ? ' 

There  is  nothing  the  lower  orders  like  better  than  a  little 
downright  good-humoured  rating.  Flattery  they  scorn  very 
much  :  honest  abuse  they  enjoy.  They  call  it  speaking 
plainly,  and  take  a  sincere  delight  in  being  the  objects  thereof. 
The  homely  harshness  of  Miss  Keeldar's  salutation  won  her 
the  ear  of  the  whole  throng  in  a  second. 


364  SHIBLEY 

'  We're  no  war  nor  some  'at  is  aboon  us  ;  are  we  ?  '  asked 
a  man,  smiling. 

'  Nor  a  whit  better  :  you  that  should  be  models  of  industry 
are  just  as  gossip-loving  as  the  idle.  Fine,  rich  people  that 
have  nothing  to  do,  may  be  partly  excused  for  trifling  their 
time  away :  you  who  have  to  earn  your  bread  with  the 
sweat  of  your  brow  are  quite  inexcusable.' 

'  That's  queer,  Mistress :  suld  we  never  have  a  holiday 
because  we  work  hard  ?  ' 

'  Never,'  was  the  prompt  answer ;  '  unless,'  added  the 
'  mistress '  with  a  smile  that  half-belied  the  severity  of  her 
speech — '  unless  you  knew  how  to  make  a  better  use  of  it 
than  to  get  together  over  rum  and  tea,  if  you  are  women — or 
over  beer  and  pipes,  if  you  are  men,  and  talk  scandal  at  your 
neighbour's  expense.  Come,  friends,'  she  added,  changing 
at  once  from  bluntness  to  courtesy,  '  oblige  me  by  taking 
your  cans  and  going  home.  I  expect  several  persons  to  call 
to-day,  and  it  will  bs  inconvenient  to  have  the  avenues  to 
the  house  crowded.' 

Yorkshire  people  are  as  yielding  to  persuasion  as  they 
are  stubborn  against  compulsion  :  the  yard  was  clear  in  five 
minutes. 

'  Thank  you,  and  good -by  to  you,  friends,'  said  Shirley, 
as  she  closed  the  gates  on  a  quiet  court. 

Now,  let  me  hear  the  most  refined  of  Cockneys  presume 
to  find  fault  with  Yorkshire  manners  !  Taken  as  they  ought 
to  be,  the  majority  of  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  West-Biding 
are  gentlemen  and  ladies,  every  inch  of  them :  it  is  only 
against  the  weak  affectation  and  futile  pomposity  of  a  would- 
be  aristocrat  they  turn  mutinous. 

Entering  by  the  back-way,  the  young  ladies  passed 
through  the  kitchen  (or  house,  as  the  inner  kitchen  is  called) 
to  the  hall.  Mrs.  Pryor  came  running  down  the  oak  stair- 
case to  meet  them.  She  was  all  unnerved  :  her  naturally 
sanguino  complexion  was  pale  ;  her  usually  placid,  though 
timid,  blue  eye  was  wandering,  unsettled,  alarmed.  She  did 
nob,  however,  break  out  into  any  exclamations,  or  hurried 


TO-MOEBOW  365 

narrative  of  what  had  happened.  Her  predominant  feeling 
had  been  in  the  course  of  the  night,  and  was  now  this 
morning,  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction  with  herself  that  she 
could  not  feel  firmer,  cooler,  more  equal  to  the  demands  of 
the  occasion. 

'  You  are  aware,'  she  began  with  a  trembling  voice,  and 
yet  the  most  conscientious  anxiety  to  avoid  exaggeration  in 
what  she  was  about  to  say, — 'that  a  body  of  rioters  has 
attacked  Mr.  Moore's  mill  to-night :  we  heard  the  firing  and 
confusion  very  plainly  here  :  we  none  of  us  slept :  it  was  a 
sad  night :  the  house  has  been  in  great  bustle  all  the  morning 
with  people  coming  and  going  :  the  servants  have  applied  to 
me  for  orders  and  directions,  which  I  really  did  not  feel 
warranted  in  giving.  Mr.  Moore  has,  I  believe,  sent  up  for 
refreshments  for  the  soldiers  and  others  engaged  in  the 
defence ;  for  some  conveniences  also  for  the  wounded.  I 
could  not  undertake  the  responsibility  of  giving  orders  or 
taking  measures.  I  fear  delay  may  have  been  injurious  in 
some  instances ;  but  this  is  not  my  house  :  you  were  absent, 
my  dear  Miss  Keeldar — what  could  I  do  ? ' 

'  Were  no  refreshments  sent  ? '  asked  Shirley,  while  her 
countenance,  hitherto  so  clear,  propitious,  and  quiet,  even 
while  she  was  rating  the  milk-fetchers,  suddenly  turned  dark 
and  warm. 

'  I  think  not,  my  dear.' 

'  And  nothing  for  the  wounded  ? — no  linen — no  wine— no 
bedding  ? ' 

'  I  think  not.  I  cannot  tell  what  Mrs.  Gill  did  :  but  it 
seemed  impossible  to  me,  at  the  moment,  to  venture  to 
dispose  of  your  property  by  sending  supplies  to  soldiers — 
provisions  for  a  company  of  soldiers  sounds  formidable  :  how 
many  there  are  I  did  not  ask  ;  but  I  could  not  think  of 
allowing  them  to  pillage  the  house  as  it  were.  I  intended  to 
do  what  was  right ;  yet  I  did  not  see  the  case  quite  clearly, 
I  own.' 

'  It  lies  in  a  nutshell,  notwithstanding.  These  soldiers 
have  risked  their  lives  in  defence  of  my  property — I  suppose 


366  SHIRLEY 

they  have  a  right  to  my  gratitude:  the  wounded  are  our 
fellow-creatures — I  suppose  we  should  aid  them.  Mrs. 
Gill ! ' 

She  turned,  and  called  in  a  voice  more  clear  than  soft. 
It  rang  through  the  thick  oak  of  the  hall  and  kitchen  doors 
more  effectually  than  a  bell's  summons.  Mr s.  Gill,  who  was 
deep  in  bread-making,  came  with  hands  and  apron  in 
culinary  case,  not  having  dared  to  stop  to  rub  the  dough 
from  the  one,  or  to  shake  the  flour  from  the  other.  Her 
mistress  had  never  called  a  servant  in  that  voice,  save  once 
before,  and  that  was  when  she  had  seen  from  the  window 
Tartar  in  full  tug  with  two  carriers'  dogs,  each  of  them  a 
match  for  him  in  size,  if  not  in  courage,  and  their  masters 
standing  by,  encouraging  their  animals,  while  hers  was 
unbefriended :  then,  indeed,  she  had  summoned  John  as  if 
the  Day  of  Judgment  were  at  hand  :  nor  had  she  waited  for 
the  said  John's  coming,  but  had  walked  out  into  the  lane 
bonnetless  ;  and  after  informing  the  carriers  that  she  held 
them  far  less  of  men  than  the  three  brutes  whirling  and 
worrying  in  the  dust  before  them,  had  put  her  hands  round 
the  thick  neck  of  the  largest  of  the  curs  and  given  her  whole 
strength  to  the  essay  of  choking  it  from  Tartar's  torn  and 
bleeding  eye,  just  above  and  below  which  organ  the  vengeful 
fangs  were  inserted.  Five  or  six  men  were  presently  on  the 
spot  to  help  her,  but  she  never  thanked  one  of  them  :  '  They 
might  have  come  before,  if  their  will  had  been  good,'  she 
said.  She  had  not  a  word  for  anybody  during  the  rest  of 
the  day ;  but  sat  near  the  hall  fire  till  evening,  watching  and 
tending  Tartar,  who  lay  all  gory,  stiff,  and  swelled,  on  a  mat 
at  her  feet.  She  wept  furtively  over  him  sometimes,  and 
murmured  the  softest  words  of  pity  and  endearment,  in  tones 
whose  music  the  old,  scarred,  canine  warrior  acknowledged 
by  licking  her  hand  or  her  sandal  alternately  with  his  own 
red  wounds.  As  to  John,  his  lady  turned  a  cold  shoulder 
on  him  for  a  week  afterwards. 

Mrs.  Gill,  remembering  this  little  episode,  came  '  all  of  a 
tremble,'  as  she  said  herself.  In  a  firm,  brief  voice,  Miss 


TO-MOKfcOW  367 

Keeldar  proceeded  to  put  questions  and  give  orders.  That 
at  such  a  time  Fieldhead  should  have  evinced  the  inhospitality 
of  a  miser's  hovel,  stung  her  haughty  spirit  to  the  quick ; 
and  the  revolt  of  its  pride  was  seen  in  the  heaving  of  her 
heart ;  stirred  stormily  under  the  lace  and  silk  which 
veiled  it. 

'  How  long  is  it  since  that  message  came  from  the 
mill  ? ' 

'  Not  an  hour  yet,  ma'am,'  answered  the  housekeeper, 
soothingly. 

'  Not  an  hour  !  You  might  almost  as  well  have  said  not 
a  day.  They  will  have  applied  elsewhere  by  this  time.  Send 
a  man  instantly  down  to  tell  them  that  everything  this  house 
contains  is  at  Mr.  Moore's,  Mr.  Helstone's,  and  the  soldiers' 
service.  Do  that  first ! ' 

While  the  order  was  being  executed,  Shirley  moved  away 
from  her  friends,  and  stood  at  the  hall-window,  silent,  un- 
approachable. When  Mrs.  Gill  came  back,  she  turned  :  the 
purple  flush  which  painful  excitement  kindles  on  a  pale 
cheek,  glowed  on  hers :  the  spark  which  displeasure  lights 
in  a  dark  eye  fired  her  glance. 

'  Let  the  contents  of  the  larder  and  the  wine-cellar  be 
brought  up,  put  into  the  hay-carts,  and  driven  down  to  tho 
Hollow.  If  there  does  not  happen  to  be  much  bread  or 
much  meat  in  the  house,  go  to  the  butcher  and  baker,  and 
desire  them  to  send  what  they  have  :  but  I  will  see  for 
myself.' 

She  moved  off. 

'  All  will  be  right  soon  :  she  will  get  over  it  in  an  hour,' 
whispered  Caroline  to  Mrs.  Pryor.  '  Go  up-stairs,  dear 
madam,'  she  added,  affectionately,  '  and  try  to  be  as  calm 
and  easy  as  you  can.  The  truth  is,  Shirley  will  blame  her- 
self more  than  you  before  the  day  is  over.' 

By  dint  of  a  few  more  gentle  assurances  and  persuasions, 
Miss  Helstone  contrived  to  soothe  the  agitated  lady.  Having 
accompanied  her  to  her  apartment,  and  promised  to  rejoin 
her  there  when  things  were  settled,  Caroline  left  her  to  see, 


368  SHIELEY 

as  she  said,  '  if  she  could  be  useful.'  She  presently  found 
that  she  could  be  very  useful ;  for  the  retinue  of  servants  at 
Fieldhead  was  by  no  means  numerous,  and  just  now  their 
mistress  found  plenty  of  occupation  for  all  the  hands  at  her 
command,  and  for  her  own  also.  The  delicate  good-nature 
and  dexterous  activity  which  Caroline  brought  to  the  aid  of 
the  housekeeper  and  maids, — all  somewhat  scared  by  their 
lady's  unwonted  mood — did  a  world  of  good  at  once  :  it 
helped  the  assistants  and  appeased  the  directress.  A  chance 
glance  and  smile  from  Caroline  moved  Shirley  to  an  answer- 
ing smile  directly.  The  former  was  carrying  a  heavy  basket 
up  the  cellar-stairs. 

1  This  is  a  shame  !  '  cried  Shirley,  running  to  her.  '  It 
will  strain  your  arm.1 

She  took  it  from  her,  and  herself  bore  it  out  into  the 
yard.  The  cloud  of  temper  was  dispelled  when  she  came 
back ;  the  flash  in  her  eye  was  melted ;  the  shade  on  her 
forehead  vanished  :'  she  resumed  her  usual  cheerful  and 
cordial  manner  to  those  about  her,  tempering  her  revived 
spirits  with  a  little  of  the  softness  of  shame  at  her  previous 
unjust  anger. 

She  was  still  superintending  the  lading  of  the  cart  when 
a  gentleman  entered  the  yard  and  approached  her  ere  she 
was  aware  of  his  presence. 

'  I  hope  I  see  Miss  Keeldar  well  this  morning  ? '  he  said, 
examining  with  rather  a  significant  scrutiny  her  still  flushed 
face. 

She  gave  him  a  look,  and  then  again  bent  to  her  employ- 
ment, without  reply.  A  pleasant  enough  smile  played  on  her 
lips,  but  she  hid  it.  The  gentleman  repeated  his  salutation, 
stooping,  that  it  might  reach  her  ear  with  more  facility. 

'  Well  enough,  if  she  be  good  enough,'  was  the  answer ; 
'  and  so  is  Mr.  Moore,  too,  I  daresay.  To  speak  truth,  I  am 
not  anxious  about  him  ;  some  slight  mischance  would  be 
only  his  just,  due  :  his  conduct  has  been — we  will  say  strange, 
just  now,  till  we  have  time  to  characterise  it  by  a  more 
exact  epithet.  Meantime,  may  I  ask  what  brings  him  here  ? ' 


TO-MORROW  369 

'  Mr.  Helstone  and  I  have  just  received  your  message 
that  everything  at  Fieldhead  was  at  our  service.  We  judged, 
by  the  unlimited  wording  of  the  gracious  intimation,  that 
you  would  be  giving  yourself  too  much  trouble  :  I  perceive, 
our  conjecture  was  correct.  We  are  not  a  regiment,  remem- 
ber :  only  about  half-a-dozen  soldiers,  and  as  many  civilians. 
Allow  me  to  retrench  something  from  these  too  abundant 
supplies.' 

Miss  Keeldar  blushed,  while  she  laughed  at  her  own  over- 
eager  generosity,  and  most  disproportionate  calculations. 
Moore  laughed  too — very  quietly,  though ;  and  as  quietly, 
he  ordered  basket  after  basket  to  be  taken  from  the  cart, 
and  remanded  vessel  after  vessel  to  the  cellar. 

'  The  Rector  must  hear  of  this,'  he  said  :  '  he  will  make  a 
good  story  of  it.  What  an  excellent  army  contractor  Miss 
Keeldar  would  have  been  ! '  again  he  laughed,  adding — '  It 
is  precisely  as  I  conjectured.' 

1  You  ought  to  be  thankful,'  said  Shirley,  '  and  not  mock 
me.  What  could  I  do  ?  How  could  I  gauge  your  appetites, 
or  number  your  band  ?  For  aught  I  knew,  there  might  have 
been  fifty  of  you  at  least  to  victual.  You  told  me  nothing ; 
and  then,  an  application  to  provision  soldiers  naturally 
suggests  large  ideas.' 

'  It  appears  so,'  remarked  Moore,  levelling  another  of  his 
keen,  quiet  glances  at  the  discomfited  Shirley.  '  Now,'  he 
continued,  addressing  the  carter,  '  I  think  you  may  take 
what  remains  to  the  Hollow.  Your  load  will  be  somewhat 
lighter  than  the  one  Miss  Keeldar  destined  you  to  carry.' 

As  the  vehicle  rumbled  out  of  the  yard,  Shirley,  rallying 
her  spirits,  demanded  what  had  become  of  the  wounded. 

'There  was  not  a  single  man  hurt  on  our  side,'  was  the 
answer. 

'  You  were  hurt  yourself,  on  the  temples,'  interposed  a 
quick,  low  voice — that  of  Caroline,  who,  having  withdrawn 
within  the  shade  of  the  door,  and  behind  the  large  person  of 
Mrs.  Gill,  had  till  now  escaped  Moore's  notice  :  when  she 
spoke,  his  eye  searched  the  obscurity  of  her  retreat. 


370  SHIKLEY 

'  Are  you  much  hurt  ?  '  she  inquired. 

'As  you  might  scratch  your  finger  with  a  needle  in 
sewing.' 

1  Lift  your  hair,  and  let  us  see.' 

He  took  his  hat  off,  and  did  as  he  was  bid,  disclosing 
only  a  narrow  slip  of  court-plaster.  Caroline  indicated,  by 
a  slight  movement  of  the  head,  that  she  was  satisfied,  and 
disappeared  within  the  clear  obscure  of  the  interior. 

'  How  did  she  know  I  was  hurt  ?  '  asked  Moore. 

'By  rumour,  no  doubt.  But  it  is  too  good  in  her  to 
trouble  herself  about  you.  For  my  part,  it  was  of  your 
victims  I  was  thinking  when  I  inquired  after  the  wounded  : 
what  damage  have  your  opponents  sustained  ? ' 

'  One  of  the  rioters,  or  victims,  as  you  call  them,  was 
killed,  and  six  were  hurt.' 

1  What  have  you  done  with  them  ? ' 

'  What  you  will  perfectly  approve.  Medical  aid  was  pro- 
cured immediately ;  and  as  soon  as  we  can  get  a  couple  of 
covered  waggons,  and  some  clean  straw,  they  will  be  removed 
to  StilbroV 

'  Straw !  you  must  have  beds  and  bedding.  I  will  send 
my  waggon  directly,  properly  furnished  ;  and  Mr.  Yorke,  I 
am  sure,  will  send  his.' 

'  You  guess  correctly  :  he  has  volunteered  already  ;  and 
Mrs.  Yorke — who,  like  you,  seems  disposed  to  regard  the 
rioters  as  martyrs,  and  me,  and  especially  Mr.  Helstone,  as 
murderers — is  at  this  moment,  I  believe,  most  assiduously 
engaged  in  fitting  it  up  with  feather-beds,  pillows,  bolsters, 
blankets,  &c.  The  victims  lack  no  attentions — I  promise 
you.  Mr.  Hall — your  favourite  parson — has  been  with 
them  ever  since  six  o'clock,  exhorting  them,  praying  with 
them,  and  even  waiting  on  them  like  any  nurse ;  and 
Caroline's  good  friend,  Miss  Ainley,  that  very  plain  old 
maid,  sent  in  a  stock  of  lint  and  linen,  something  in 
the  proportion  of  another  lady's  allowance  of  beef  and 
wine.' 

'  That  will  do.     Where  is  your  sister  ? ' 


TO-MORROW  371 

1  Well  cared  for.  I  had  her  securely  domiciled  with  Miss 
Mann.  This  very  morning,  the  two  set  out  for  Wormwood 
Wells  (a  noted  watering-place),  and  will  stay  there  some 
weeks.' 

'  So  Mr.  Helstone  domiciled  me  at  the  Rectory  !  Mighty 
clever  you  gentlemen  think  you  are  !  I  make  you  heartily 
welcome  to  the  idea,  and  hope  its  savour,  as  you  chew  the 
cud  of  reflection  upon  it,  gives  you  pleasure.  Acute  and 
astute,  why  are  you  not  also  omniscient  ?  How  is  it  that 
events  transpire,  under  your  very  noses,  of  which  you  have 
no  suspicion?  It  should  be  so,  otherwise  the  exquisite 
gratification  of  out-manoeuvring  you  would  be  unknown. 
Ah  !  friend,  you  may  search  my  countenance,  but  you  cannot 
read  it." 

Moore,  indeed,  looked  as  if  he  could  not. 

'  You  think  me  a  dangerous  specimen  of  my  sex.  Don't 
you,  now  ? ' 

'  A  peculiar  one,  at  least.' 

'  But  Caroline — is  she  peculiar  ? ' 

'  In  her  way — yes.' 

1  Her  way  !     What  is  her  way  ?  ' 

'  You  know  her  as  well  as  I  do.' 

1  And  knowing  her  I  assert  that  she  is  neither  eccentric 
nor  difficult  of  control :  is  she  ? ' 

'  That  depends ' 

1  However,  there  is  nothing  masculine  about  her  ?  ' 

1  Why  lay  such  emphasis  on  her  ?  Do  you  consider  her 
a  contrast,  in  that  respect,  to  yourself  ? ' 

'  You  do,  no  doubt :  but  that  does  not  signify.  Caroline 
is  neither  masculine,  nor  of  what  they  call  the  spirited  order 
of  women.' 

'  I  have  seen  her  flash  out.' 

'  So  have  I — but  not  with  manly  fire :  it  was  a  short, 
vivid,  trembling  glow,  that  shot  up,  shone,  vanished 

1  And  left  her  scared  at  her  own  daring.  You  describe 
others  besides  Caroline.' 

'  The  point  I  wish  to  establish  is,  that  Miss  Helstone, 


372  SHIBLEY 

though  gentle,  tractable,  and  candid  enough,  is  still  perfectly 
capable  of  defying  even  Mr.  Moore's  penetration.' 

'  What  have  you  and  she  been  doing  ? '  asked  Moore, 
suddenly. 

1  Have  you  had  any  breakfast  ?  ' 

1  What  is  your  mutual  mystery  ? ' 

'  If  you  are  hungry,  Mrs.  Gill  will  give  you  something  to 
eat  here.  Step  into  the  oak-parlour,  and  ring  the  bell — you 
will  be  served  as  if  at  an  inn  ;  or,  if  you  like  better,  go  back 
to  the  Hollow.' 

'  The  alternative  is  not  open  to  me :  I  must  go  back. 
Good  morning :  the  first  leisure  I  have,  I  will  see  you 
again.' 


CHAPTEK  XXI 

MBS.    PBYOB 

WHILE  Shirley  was  talking  with  Moore,  Caroline  rejoined 
Mrs.  Pryor  upstairs.  She  found  that  lady  deeply  depressed. 
She  would  not  say  that  Miss  Keeldar's  hastiness  had  hurt 
her  feelings ;  but  it  was  evident  an  inward  wound  galled  her. 
To  any  but  a  congenial  nature,  she  would  have  seemed 
insensible  to  the  quiet,  tender  attentions  by  which  Miss 
Helstone  sought  to  impart  solace  ;  but  Caroline  knew  that, 
unmoved  or  slightly  moved  as  she  looked,  she  felt,  valued, 
and  was  healed  by  them. 

'  I  am  deficient  in  self-confidence  and  decision,'  she  said 
at  last.  '  I  always  have  been  deficient  in  those  qualities : 
yet  I  think  Miss  Keeldar  should  have  known  my  character 
well  enough  by  this  time,  to  be  aware  that  I  always  feel  an 
even  painful  solicitude  to  do  right,  to  act  for  the  best.  The 
unusual  nature  of  the  demand  on  my  judgment  puzzled  me, 
especially  following  the  alarms  of  the  night.  I  could  not 
venture  to  act  promptly  for  another  :  but  I  trust  no  serious 
harm  will  result  from  my  lapse  of  firmness.' 

A  gentle  knock  was  here  heard  at  the  door:  it  was  half- 
opened. 

'  Caroline,  come  here,'  said  a  low  voice. 

Miss  Helstone  went  out :  there  stood  Shirley  in  the 
gallery,  looking  contrite,  ashamed,  sorry  as  any  repentant 
child. 

'  How  is  Mrs.  Pryor  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  Bather  out  of  spirits,'  said  Caroline. 

1 1  have  behaved   very   shamefully,  very  ungenerously, 


374  SHIRLEY 

very  ungratefully  to  her,'  said  Shirley.  '  How  insolent  in 
me  to  turn  on  her  thus,  for  what  after  all  was  no  fault,  only 
an  excess  of  conscientiousness  on  her  part.  But  I  regret 
my  error  most  sincerely :  tell  her  so,  and  ask  if  she  will 
forgive  me.' 

Caroline  discharged  the  errand  with  heartfelt  pleasure. 
Mrs.  Pryor  rose,  came  to  the  door  :  she  did  not  like  scenes ; 
she  dreaded  them  as  all  timid  people  do :  she  said  falteringly 
— '  Come  in,  my  dear.' 

Shirley  did  come  in  with  some  impetuosity  :  she  threw 
her  arms  round  her  governess,  and  while  she  kissed  her 
heartily,  she  said — '  You  know  you  must  forgive  me,  Mrs. 
Pryor.  I  could  not  get  on  at  all  if  there  was  a  misunder- 
standing between  you  and  me.' 

1 1  have  nothing  to  forgive,'  was  the  reply.  '  We  will 
pass  it  over  now,  if  you  please.  The  final  result  of  the 
incident  is,  that  it  proves  more  plainly  than  ever  how 
unequal  I  am  to  certain  crises.' 

And  that  was  the  painful  feeling  which  would  remain  on 
Mrs.  Pryor's  mind  :  no  effort  of  Shirley's  or  Caroline's 
could  efface  it  thence  :  she  could  forgive  her  offending  pupil, 
not  her  innocent  self. 

Miss  Keeldar,  doomed  to  be  in  constant  request  during 
the  morning,  was  presently  summoned  down-stairs  again. 
The  Rector  called  first  :  a  lively  welcome  and  livelier 
reprimand  were  at  his  service  ;  he  expected  both,  and,  being 
in  high  spirits,  took  them  in  equally  good  part- 

In  the  course  of  his  brief  visit,  he  quite  forgot  to  ask 
after  his  niece  :  the  riot,  the  rioters,  the  mill,  the  magistrates, 
the  heiress,  absorbed  all  his  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of 
family  ties.  He  alluded  to  the  part  himself  and  curate  had 
taken  in  the  defence  of  the  Hollow. 

'  The  vials  of  pharisaical  wrath  will  be  emptied  on  our 
heads,  for  our  share  in  this  business,'  he  said ;  '  but  I  defy 
every  calumniator.  I  was  there  only  to  support  the  law,  to 
play  my  part  as  a  man  and  a  Briton  ;  which  characters  I 
deem  quite  compatible  with  those  of  the  priest  and  Levite, 


MRS.  PRYOR  375 

in  their  highest  sense.  Your  tenant,  Moore,'  he  went  on, 
'  has  won  my  approbation.  A  cooler  commander  I  would 
not  wish  to  see,  nor  a  more  determined.  Besides,  the  man 
has  shown  sound  judgment  and  good  sense ;  first,  in  being 
thoroughly  prepared  for  the  event  which  has  taken  place, 
and  subsequently,  when  his  well-concerted  plans  had  secured 
him  success,  in  knowing  how  to  use  without  abusing  his 
victory.  Some  of  the  magistrates  are  now  well  frightened, 
and,  like  all  cowards,  show  a  tendency  to  be  cruel ;  Moore 
restrains  them  with  admirable  prudence.  He  has  hitherto 
been  very  unpopular  in  the  neighbourhood ;  but,  mark  my 
words,  the  tide  of  opinion  will  now  take  a  turn  in  his  favour : 
people  will  find  out  that  they  have  not  appreciated  him, 
and  will  hasten  to  remedy  their  error ;  and  he,  when  he 
perceives  the  public  disposed  to  acknowledge  his  merits,  will 
show  a  more  gracious  mien  than  that  with  which  he  has 
hitherto  favoured  us.' 

Mr.  Helstone  was  about  to  add  to  this  speech  some 
half -jesting,  half -serious  warnings  to  Miss  Keeldar,  on  the 
subject  of  her  rumoured  partiality  for  her  talented  tenant, 
when  a  ring  at  the  door,  announcing  another  caller,  checked 
his  raillery ;  and  as  that  other  caller  appeared  in  the  form 
of  a  white-haired,  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  rather  truculent 
countenance  and  disdainful  eye — in  short,  our  old  acquaint- 
ance, and  the  Rector's  old  enemy,  Mr.  Yorke — the  priest 
and  Levite  seized  his  hat,  and  with  the  briefest  of  adieux  to 
Miss  Keeldar,  and  the  sternest  of  nods  to  her  guest,  took  an 
abrupt  leave. 

Mr.  Yorke  was  in  no  mild  mood,  and  in  no  measured 
terms  did  he  express  his  opinion  on  the  transaction  of  the 
night :  Moore,  the  magistrates,  the  soldiers,  the  mob-leaders, 
each  and  all  came  in  for  a  share  of  his  invectives ;  but  he 
reserved  his  strongest  epithets — and  real  racy  Yorkshire 
Doric  adjectives  they  were — for  the  benefit  of  the  fighting 
parsons,  the  '  sanguinary,  demoniac '  rector  and  curate. 
According  to  him,  the  cup  of  ecclesiastical  guilt  was  now 
full  indeed. 


376  SHIELEY 

1  The  Church/  he  said,  '  was  in  a  bonnie  pickle  now :  it 
was  time  it  came  down  when  parsons  took  to  swaggering 
amang  soldiers,  blazing  away  wi'  bullet  and  gunpowder, 
taking  the  lives  of  far  honester  men  than  themselves.' 

'  What  would  Moore  have  done,  if  nobody  had  helped 
him  ?  '  asked  Shirley. 

'  Drunk  as  he'd  brewed— eaten  as  he'd  baked.' 

1  Which  means,  you  would  have  left  him  by  himself  to 
face  that  mob.  Good.  He  lias  plenty  of  courage  ;  but  the 
greatest  amount  of  gallantry  that  ever  garrisoned  one  human 
breast  could  scarce  avail  against  two  hundred.' 

'  He  had  the  soldiers ;  those  poor  slave's  who  hire  out 
their  own  blood  and  spill  other  folks'  for  money.' 

'  You  abuse  soldiers  almost  as  much  as  you  abuse  clergy- 
men. All  who  wear  red  coats  are  national  refuse  in  your 
eyes,  and  all  who  wear  black  are  national  swindlers.  Mr. 
Moore,  according  to  you,  did  wrong  to  get  military  aid,  and 
he  did  still  worse  to  accept  of  any  other  aid.  Your  way  of 
talking  amounts  to  this  : — he  should  have  abandoned  hia 
mill  and  his  life  to  the  rage  of  a  set  of  misguided  madmen, 
and  Mr.  Helstone  and  every  other  gentleman  in  the  parish 
should  have  looked  on,  and  seen  the  building  razed  and  its 
owner  slaughtered,  and  never  stirred  a  finger  to  save  either,' 

'  If  Moore  had  behaved  to  his  men  from  the  beginning 
as  a  master  ought  to  behave,  they  never  would  have  enter- 
tained their  present  feelings  towards  him.' 

'  Easy  for  you  to  talk,'  exclaimed  Miss  Keeldar,  who  was 
beginning  to  wax  warm  in  her  tenant's  cause  :  '  you,  whose 
family  have  lived  at  Briarmains  for  six  generations,  to  whose 
person  the  people  have  been  accustomed  for  fifty  years,  who 
know  all  their  ways,  prejudices,  and  preferences.  Easy, 
indeed,  for  you  to  act  so  as  to  avoid  offending  them  ;  but 
Mr.  Moore  came  a  stranger  into  the  district :  he  came  here 
poor  and  friendless,  with  nothing  but  his  own  energies  to 
back  him ;  nothing  but  his  honour,  his  talent,  and  his 
industry  to  make  his  way  for  him.  A  monstrous  crime 
indeed  that,  under  such  circumstances,  he  could  not 


MBS.  I>BYO£  377 

popularise  his  naturally  grave,  quiet  manners,  all  at  once : 
could  not  be  jocular,  and  free,  and  cordial  with  a  strange 
peasantry,  as  you  are  with  your  fellow-townsmen !  An 
unpardonable  transgression,  that  when  he  introduced  im- 
provements he  did  not  go  about  the  business  in  quite  the 
most  politic  way  ;  did  not  graduate  his  changes  as  delicately 
as  a  rich  capitalist  might  have  done  !  For  errors  of  this  sort 
is  he  to  be  the  victim  of  mob-outrage  ?  Is  he  to  be  denied 
even  the  privilege  of  defending  himself?  Are  those  who 
have  the  hearts  of  men  in  their  breasts  (and  Mr.  Helstone — 
say  what  you  will  of  him — has  such  a  heart)  to  be  reviled 
like  malefactors  because  they  stand  by  him — because  they 
venture  to  espouse  the  cause  of  one  against  two  hundred  ?  ' 

'  Come — come  now — be  cool,'  said  Mr.  Yorke,  smiling  at 
the  earnestness  with  which  Shirley  multiplied  her  rapid 
questions. 

'  Cool !  Must  I  listen  coolly  to  downright  nonsense — to 
dangerous  nonsense  ?  No.  I  like  you  very  well,  Mr.  Yorke, 
as  you  know ;  but  I  thoroughly  dislike  some  of  your 
principles.  All  that  cant — excuse  me,  but  I  repeat  the 
word — all  that  cant  about  soldiers  and  parsons  is  most 
offensive  in  my  ears.  All  ridiculous,  irrational  crying  up  of 
one  class,  whether  the  same  be  aristocrat  or  democrat — all 
howling  down  of  another  class,  whether  clerical  or  military — 
all  exacting  injustice  to  individuals,  whether  monarch  or 
mendicant— is  really  sickening  to  me  :  all  arraying  of  ranks 
against  'ranks,  all  party  hatreds,  all  tyrannies  disguised  as 
liberties,  I  reject  and  wash  my  hands  of.  You  think  you 
are  a  philanthropist ;  you  think  you  are  an  advocate  of 
liberty  ;  but  I  will  tell  you  this—  Mr.  Hall,  the  parson  of 
Nunnely,  is  a  better  friend  both  of  man  and  freedom,  than 
Hiram  Yorke,  the  Eeformer  of  Briarfield.' 

From  a  man,  Mr.  Yorke  would  not  have  borne  this 
language  very  patiently,  nor  would  he  have  endured  it  from 
some  women  ;  but  he  accounted  Shirley  both  honest  and 
pretty,  and  her  plain-spoken  ire  amused  him  :  besides  he 
took  a  secret  pleasure  in  hearing  her  defend  her  tenant,  for 


378  SHIRLEY 

we  have  already  intimated  he  had  Robert  Moore's  interest 
very  much  at  heart :  moreover,  if  he  wished  to  avenge  him- 
self for  her  severity,  he  knew  the  means  lay  in  his  power  : 
a  word,  he  believed,  would  suffice  to  tame  and  silence  her, 
to  cover  her  frank  forehead  with  the  rosy  shadow  of  shame, 
and  veil  the  glow  of  her  eye  under  down-drooped  lid  and 
lash. 

'  What  more  hast  thou  to  say  ? '  he  inquired,  as  she 
paused,  rather  it  appeared  to  take  breath,  than  because  her 
subject  or  her  zeal  was  exhausted. 

'  Say,  Mr.  Yorke  ! '  was  the  answer,  the  speaker  mean- 
time walking  fast  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  oak -parlour.  '  Say  ? 
I  have  a  great  deal  to  say,  if  I  could  get  it  out  in  lucid  order 
which  I  never  can  do.  I  have  to  say  that  your  views,  and 
those  of  most  extreme  politicians,  are  such  as  none  but  men 
in  an  irresponsible  position  can  advocate ;  that  they  are 
purely  opposition  views,  meant  only  to  be  talked  about,  and 
never  intended  to  be  acted  on.  Make  you  prime  minister  of 
England  to-morrow,  and  you  would  have  to  abandom  them. 
You  abuse  Moore  for  defending  his  mill :  had  you  been  in 
Moore's  place  you  could  not  with  honour  or  sense  have 
acted  otherwise  than  he  acted.  You  abuse  Mr.  Helstone 
for  everything  he  does  :  Mr.  Helstone  has  his  faults :  he 
sometimes  does  wrong,  but  oftener  right.  Were  you  ordained 
vicar  of  Briarfiold,  you  would  find  it  no  easy  task  to  sustain 
all  the  active  schemes  for  the  benefit  of  the  parish  planned 
and  persevered  in  by  your  predecessor.  I  wonder  people  can- 
not judge  more  fairly  of  each  other  and  themselves.  When  I 
hear  Messrs.  Malone  and  Donne  chatter  about  the  authority 
of  the  Church,  the  dignity  and  claims  of  the  priesthood,  the 
deference  due  to  them  as  clergymen  ;  when  I  hear  the  out- 
breaks of  their  small  spite  against  Dissenters ;  when  I 
witness  their  silly  narrow  jealousies  and  assumptions  ;  when 
their  palaver  about  forms,  and  traditions,  and  superstitions, 
is  sounding  in  my  ear ;  when  I  behold  their  insolent 
carnage  to  the  poor,  their  often  base  servility  to  the  rich,  I 
think  the  Establishment  is  indeed  in  a  poor  way,  and  both 


MRS.  PBYOB  379 

she  and  her  sons  appear  in  the  utmost  need  of  reformation. 
Turning  away  distressed  from  minster-tower  and  village- 
spire — ay,  as  distressed  as  a  churchwarden  who  feels  the 
exigence  of  whitewash,  and  has  not  wherewithal  to  purchase 
lime — I  recall  your  senseless  sarcasms  on  the  "  fat  bishops," 
the  "  pampered  parsons,"  "  old  mother  church,"  &c.  I 
remember  your  strictures  on  all  who  differ  from  you,  your 
sweeping  condemnation  of  classes  and  individuals,  without 
the  slightest  allowance  made  for  circumstances  or  tempta- 
tions ;  and  then,  Mr.  Yorke,  doubt  clutches  my  inmost  heart 
as  to  whether  men  exist  clement,  reasonable,  and  just  enough 
to  be  intrusted  with  the  task  of  reform.  I  don't  believe  you 
are  of  the  number.' 

1  You  have  an  ill  opinion  of  me,  Miss  Shirley  :  you  never 
told  me  so  much  of  your  mind  before.' 

'  I  never  had  an  opening  :  but  I  have  sat  on  Jessie's  stool 
by  your  chair  in  the  back-parlour  at  Briarmains,  for  evenings 
together,  listening  excitedly  to  your  talk,  half-admiring  what 
you  said,  and  half-rebelling  against  it.  I  think  you  a  fine 
old  Yorkshireman,  sir  :  I  am  proud  to  have  been  born  in  the 
same  county  and  parish  as  yourself — truthful,  upright,  inde- 
pendent you  ai'e,  as  a  rock  based  below  seas ;  but  also  you 
are  harsh,  rude,  narrow,  and  merciless.' 

4  Not  to  the  poor,  lass — nor  to  the  meek  of  the  earth — 
only  to  the  proud  and  high-minded.' 

4  And  what  right  have  you,  sir,  to  make  such  distinctions  ? 
A  prouder — a  higher-minded  man  than  yourself  does  not 
exist.  You  find  it  easy  to  speak  comfortably  to  your 
inferiors— you  are  too  haughty,  too  ambitious,  too  jealous  to 
be  civil  to  those  above  you.  But  you  are  all  alike.  Helstone 
also  is  proud  and  prejudiced.  Moore,  though  juster  and 
more  considerate  than  either  you  or  the  Rector,  is  still 
haughty,  stern,  and,  in  a  public  sense,  selfish.  It  is  well 
there  are  such  men  as  Mr.  Hall  to  be  found  occasionally  : 
men  of  large  and  kind  hearts,  who  can  love  their  whole  race, 
who  can  forgive  others  for  being  richer,  more  prospei'ous,  or 
more  powerful  than  they  are.  Such  men  may  have  less 


380  SHIKLEY 

originality,  less  force  of  character  than  you,  but  they  are 
better  friends  to  mankind.' 

'  And  when  is  it  to  be  ? '  said  Mr.  Yorke,  now  rising. 

'  When  is  what  to  be  ? ' 

'  The  wedding.' 

1  Whose  wedding  ? ' 

'  Only  that  of  Eobert  Gerard  Moore,  Esq.,  of  Hollow's 
Cottage,  with  Miss  Keeldar,  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  late 
Charles  Cave  Keeldar,  of  Fieldhead  Hall.' 

Shirley  gazed  at  the  questioner  with  rising  colour  ;  but 
the  light  iu  her  eye  was  not  faltering  :  it  shone  steadily — yea 
— it  burned  deeply. 

'  That  is  your  revenge,'  she  said,  slowly  :  then  added  : 
'  Would  it  be  a  bad  match,  unworthy  of  the  late  Charles 
Cave  Keeldar 's  representative  ? ' 

1  My  lass,  Moore  is  a  gentleman :  his  blood  is  pure  and 
ancient  as  mine  or  thine." 

'  And  we  too  set  store  by  ancient  blood  ?  We  have 
family  pride,  though  one  of  us  at  least  is  a  Republican? ' 

Yorke  bowed  as  he  stood  before  her.  His  lips  were  mute, 
but  his  eye  confessed  the  impeachment.  Yes — he  had  family 
pride — you  saw  it  in  his  whole  bearing. 

'  Moore  is  a  gentleman,'  echoed  Shirley,  lifting  her  head 
with  glad  grace.  She  checked  herself— words  seemed  crowd-, 
ing  to  her  tongue,  she  would  not  give  them  utterance ;  but 

her  look  spoke  much  at  the  moment :  what Yorke  tried 

to  read,  but  could  not — the  language  was  there visible, 

but  untranslatable — a  poem— a  fervid  lyric  in  an  unknown 
tongue.  It  was  not  a  plain  storj ,  however — no  simple  gush 
of  feeling — no  ordinary  love -confession — that  was  obvious  ; 
it  was  something  other,  deeper,  more  intricate  than  he 
guessed  at :  he  felt  his  revenge  had  not  struck  home ;  he  felt 
that  Shirley  triumphed— she  held  him  at  fault,  baffled, 
puzzled  ;  she  enjoyed  the  moment—  not  he. 

'  And  if  Moore  is  a  gentleman,  you  can  be  only  a  lady, 
therefore — 

'  Therefore  there  would  be  no  inequality  in  our  union  ?  ' 


MES.  PKYOR  381 

'  None.' 

'  Thank  you  for  your  approbation.  Will  you  give  me 
away  when  I  relinquish  the  name  of  Keeldar  for  that  of 
Moore  ? ' 

Mr.  Yorke,  instead  of  replying,  gazed  at  her  much  puzzled. 
He  could  not  divine  what  her  look  signified  ;  whether  she 
spoke  in  earnest  or  in  jest :  there  was  purpose  and  feeling, 
banter  and  scoff  playing,  mingled,  on  her  mobile  lineaments. 

1 1  don't  understand  thee,'  he  said,  turning  away. 

She  laughed :  '  Take  courage,  sir :  you  are  not  singular 
in  your  ignorance  :  but  I  suppose  if  Moore  understands  me 
that  will  do — will  it  not  ?  ' 

'  Moore  may  settle  his  own  matters  henceforward  for  me  ; 
I'll  neither  meddle  nor  make  with  them  further.' 

A  new  thought  crossed  her:  her  countenance  changed 
magically  :  with  a  sudden  darkening  of  the  eye,  and  austere 
fixing  of  the  features,  she  demanded,—'  Have  you  been  asked 
to  interfere  ?  Are  you  questioning  me  as  another's  proxy  ? ' 

1  The  Lord  save  us !  Whoever  weds  thee  must  look 
about  him  !  Keep  all  your  questions  for  Eobert ;  I'll  answer 
no  more  on  'em.  Good-day,  lassie  !  ' 


The  day  being  fine,  or  at  least  fair — for  soft  clouds 
curtained  the  sun,  and  a  dim  but  not  chill  or  waterish  haze 
slept  blue  on  the  hills — Caroline,  while  Shirley  was  engaged 
with  her  callers,  had  persuaded  Mrs.  Pryor  to  assume  her 
bonnet  and  summer  shawl,  and  to  take  a  walk  with  her  up 
towards  the  narrow  end  of  the  Hollow. 

Here,  the  opposing  sides  of  the  glen  approaching  each 
other,  and  becoming  clothed  with  brushwood  and  stunted 
oaks,  formed  a  wooded  ravine ;  at  the  bottom  of  which  ran 
the  mill-stream,  in  broken  unquiet  course,  struggling  with 
many  stones,  chafing  against  rugged  banks,  fretting  with 
gnarled  tree-roots,  foaming,  gurgling,  battling  as  it  went. 
Here,  when  you  had  wandered  half  a  mile  from  the  mill, 
you  found  a  sense  of  deep  solitude :  found  it  in  the 
shade  of  unmolested  trees ;  received  it  in  the  singing  of 


382  SHtKLEY 

many  birds,  for  which  that  shade  made  a  home.  This  was 
no  trodden  way :  the  freshness  of  the  woodflowers  attested 
that  foot  of  man  seldom  pressed  them  :  the  abounding  wild- 
roses  looked  as  if  they  budded,  bloomed,  and  faded  under 
the  watch  of  solitude,  as  in  a  sultan's  harem.  Here  you  saw 
the  sweet  azure  of  blue-bells,  and  recognised  in  pearl-white 
blossoms,  spangling  the  grass,  an  humble  type  of  some  star- 
lit spot  in  space. 

Mrs.  Pryor  liked  a  quiet  walk  :  she  ever  shunned  high- 
roads, and  sought  byways  and  lonely  lanes :  one  companion 
she  preferred  to  total  solitude,  for  in  solitude  she  was  nervous : 
a  vague  fear  of  annoying  encounters  broke  the  enjoyment  of 
quite  lonely  rambles ;  but  she  feared  nothing  with  Caroline  : 
when  once  she  got  away  from  human  habitations,  and  entered 
the  still  demesne  of  Nature,  accompanied  by  this  one  youth- 
ful friend,  a  propitious  change  seemed  to  steal  over  her 
mind  and  beam  in  her  countenance.  When  with  Caroline 
— and  Caroline  only — her  heart,  you  would  have  said,  shook 
off  a  burden,  her  brow  put  aside  a  veil,  her  spirits  too  escaped 
from  a  restraint :  with  her  she  was  cheerful ;  with  her,  at 
times,  she  was  tender  :  to  her  she  would  impart  her  know- 
ledge, I'eveal  glimpses  of  her  experience,  give  her  oppor- 
tunities for  guessing  what  life  she  had  lived,  what  cultivation 
her  mind  had  received,  of  what  calibre  was  her  intelligence, 
how  and  where  her  feelings  were  vulnerable. 

To-day,  for  instance,  as  they  walked  along,  Mrs.  Pryor 
talked  to  her  companion  about  the  various  birds  singing  in 
the  trees,  discriminated  their  species,  and  said  something 
about  their  habits  and  peculiarities.  English  natural  history 
seemed  familiar  to  her.  All  the  wild  flowers  round  their 
path  were  recognised  by  her :  tiny  plants  springing  near 
stones  and  peeping  out  of  chinks  in  old  walls — plants  such 
as  Caroline  had  scarcely  noticed  before — received  a  name 
and  an  intimation  of  their  properties  :  it  appeared  that  she 
had  minutely  studied  the  botany  of  English  fields  and  woods. 
Having  reached  the  head  of  the  ravine,  they  sat  down  together 
on  a  ledge  of  gray  and  mossy  rock  jutting  from  the  base  of  a 


MES.  PRYOR  383 

steep  green  hill,  which  towered  above  them  :  Mrs.  Pryor 
looked  round  her,  and  spoke  of  the  neighbourhood  as  she 
had  once  before  seen  it  long  ago.  She  alluded  to  its  changes, 
and  compared  its  aspect  with  that  of  other  parts  of  England  ; 
revealing  in  quiet,  unconscious  touches  of  description,  a 
sense  of  the  pictm*esque,  an  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  or 
common-place,  a  power  of  comparing  the  wild  with  the 
cultured,  the  grand  with  the  tame,  that  gave  to  her  discourse 
a  graphic  charm  as  pleasant  as  it  was  unpretending. 

The  sort  of  reverent  pleasure  with  which  Caroline  listened 
— so  sincere,  so  quiet,  yet  so  evident,  stirred  the  elder  lady's 
faculties  to  gentle  animation.  Rarely,  probably,  had  she, 
with  her  chill,  repellent  outside — her  diffident  mien  and 
incommunicative  habits,  known  what  it  was  to  excite  in  one 
whom  she  herself  could  love,  feelings  of  earnest  affection 
and  admiring  esteem.  Delightful,  doubtless,  was  the  con- 
sciousness that  a  young  girl  towards  whom  it  seemed — 
judging  by  the  moved  expression  of  her  eyes  and  features  — 
her  heart  turned  with  almost  a  fond  impulse,  looked  up  to 
her  as  an  instructor,  and  clung  to  her  as  a  friend.  With  a 
somewhat  more  marked  accent  of  interest  than  she  often 
permitted  herself  to  use,  she  said,  as  she  bent  towards  her 
youthful  companion,  and  put  aside  from  her  forehead  a  pale 
brown  curl  which  had  strayed  from  the  confining  comb — 
'  I  do  hope  this  sweet  air  blowing  from  the  hill  will  do  you 
good,  my  dear  Caroline  :  I  wish  I  could  see  something  more 
of  colour  in  these  cheeks — but  perhaps  you  were  never 
florid  ?  ' 

'  I  had  red  cheeks  once,'  returned  Miss  Helstone,  smiling. 
'  I  remember  a  year— two  years  ago,  when  I  used  to  look  in 
the  glass,  I  saw  a  different  face  there  to  what  I  see  now  — 
rounder  and  rosier.  But  when  \ve  are  young,'  added  the 
girl  of  eighteen,  '  our  minds  are  careless  and  our  lives  easy.' 

'  Do  you  ' — continued  Mrs.  Pryor,  mastering  by  an  effort 
that  tyrant  timidity  which  made  it  difficult  for  her,  even 
under  present  circumstances,  to  attempt  the  scrutiny  of 
another's  heart — '  Do  you,  at  your  age,  fret  yourself  with 


384  SHIBLEY 

cares  for  the  future  ?  Believe  me,  you  had  better  not :  let 
the  morrow  take  thought  for  the  things  of  itself.' 

'  True,  dear  madam  :  it  is  not  over  the  future  I  pine. 
The  evil  of  the  day  is  sometimes  oppressive — too  oppressive, 
and  I  long  to  escape  it.' 

'  That  is — the  evil  of  the  day — that  is — your  uncle  perhaps 
is  not — you  find  it  difficult  to  understand — he  does  not 
appreciate — 

Mrs.  Pryor  could  not  complete  her  broken  sentences  : 
she  could  not  manage  to  put  the  question  whether  Mr. 
Helstone  was  too  harsh  with  his  niece,  but  Caroline  com- 
prehended. 

'  Oh,  that  is  nothing,'  she  replied  ;  '  my  uncle  and  I  get 
on  very  well :  we  never  quarrel — I  don't  call  him  harsh — he 
never  scolds  me.  Sometimes  I  wish  somebody  in  the  world 
loved  me  ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  I  particularly  wish  him  to 
have  more  affection  for  me  than  he  has.  As  a  child,  I  should 
perhaps  have  felt  the  want  of  attention,  only  the  servants 
were  very  kind  to  me  ;  but  when  people  are  long  indifferent 
to  us,  we  grow  indifferent  to  their  indifference.  It  is  my 
uncle's  way  not  to  care  for  women  and  girls — unless  they  be 
ladies  that  he  meets  in  company :  he  could  not  alter,  and  I 
have  no  wish  that  he  should  alter,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
I  believe  it  would  merely  annoy  and  frighten  me  were  he  to 
be  affectionate  towards  me  now.  But  you  know,  Mrs.  Pryor, 
it  is  scarcely  living  to  measure  time  as  I  do  at  the  Eectory. 
The  hours  pass,  and  I  get  them  over  somehow,  but  I  do  not 
live.  I  endure  existence,  but  I  rarely  enjoy  it.  Since  Miss 
Keeldar  and  you  came,  I  have  been — I  was  going  to  say — 
happier,  but  that  would  be  untrue.'  She  paused. 

'  How  untrue  ?  You  are  fond  of  Miss  Keeldar,  are  you 
not,  my  dear  ? ' 

'  Very  fond  of  Shirley :  I  both  like  and  admire  her :  but 
I  am  painfully  circumstanced  :  for  a  reason  I  cannot  explain, 
I  want  to  go  away  from  this  place,  and  to  forget  it.' 

'  You  told  me  before  you  wished  to  be  a  governess  :  but, 
my  dear,  if  you  remember,  I  did  not  encourage  the  idea. 


MRS.  PBYOR  385 

I  have  been  a  governess  myself  great  part  of  my  life.  In 
Miss  Keeldar's  acquaintance,  I  esteem  myself  most  fortunate : 
her  talents  and  her  really  sweet  disposition  have  rendered 
my  office  easy  to  me ;  but  when  I  was  young,  before  I 
married,  my  trials  were  severe,  poignant.  I  should  not  like 

a .     I  should  not  like  you  to  endure  similar  ones.     It 

was  my  lot  to  enter  a  family  of  considerable  pretensions  to 
good  birth  and  mental  superiority,  and  the  members  of 
which  also  believed  that  "on  them  was  perceptible"  an 
unusual  endowment  of  the  "  Christian  graces  :  "  that  all  their 
hearts  were  regenerate,  and  their  spirits  in  a  peculiar  state 
of  discipline.  I  was  early  given  to  understand,  that  "  as  I 
was  not  their  equal,"  so  I  could  not  expect  "  to  have  their 
sympathy."  It  was  in  no  sort  concealed  from  me  that  I  was 
held  a  "  burden  and  a  restraint  in  society."  The  gentlemen, 
I  found,  regarded  me  as  a  "  tabooed  woman,"  to  whom  "  they 
were  interdicted  from  granting  the  usual  privileges  of  the 
sex,"  and  yet  who  "  annoyed  them  by  frequently  crossing 
their  path."  The  ladies  too  made  it  plain  that  they  thought 
me  "  a  bore."  The  servants,  it  was  signified,  "  detested  me  :  " 
why,  I  could  never  clearly  comprehend.  My  pupils,  I  was 
told,  "  however  much  they  might  love  me,  and  how  deep 
soever  the  interest  I  might  take  in  them,  could  not  be  my 
friends."  It  was  intimated,  that  I  must  "  live  alone,  and 
never  transgress  the  invisible  but  rigid  line  which  established 
the  difference  between  me  and  my  employers."  My  life  in 
this  house  was  sedentary,  solitary,  constrained,  joyless,  toil- 
some. The  dreadful  crushing  of  the  animal  spirits,  the  ever 
prevailing  sense  of  friendlessness  ami  homelessness  consequent 
on  this  state  of  things,  began  ere  long  to  produce  mortal 
effects  on  my  constitution — I  sickened.  The  lady  of  the 
house  told  me  coolly  I  was  the  victim  of  "  wounded  vanity." 
She  hinted,  that  if  I  did  not  make  an  effort  to  quell  my 
"ungodly  discontent,"  to  cease  "  murmuring  against  God's 
appointment,"  and  to  cultivate  the  profound  humility  befit- 
ting my  station,  my  mind  would  very  likely  "go  to  pieces" 
on  the  rock  that  wrecked  most  of  my  sisterhood — morbid 


386  SHIRLEY 

self-esteem ;  and  that  I  should  die  an  inmate  of  a  lunatic 
asylum. 

'  I  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Hardman ;  it  would  have  been 
useless  :  but  to  her  eldest  daughter  I  one  day  dropped  a  few 
observations,  which  were  answered  thus : — 

1  There  were  hardships,  she  allowed,  in  the  position  of  a 
governess :  "  doubtless  they  had  their  trials :  but,"  she 
averred,  with  a  manner  it  makes  me  smile  now  to  recall — 
"  but  it  must  be  so.  She  (Miss  H.)  had  neither  view,  hope, 
nor  wish  to  see  these  things  remedied  ;  for,  in  the  inherent 
constitution  of  English  habits,  feelings  and  prejudices,  there 
was  no  possibility  that  they  should  be.  Governesses,"  she 
observed,  "  must  ever  be  kept  in  a  sort  of  isolation  :  it  is  the 
only  means  of  maintaining  that  distance  which  the  reserve 
of  English  manners  and  the  decorum  of  English  families 
exact." 

'  I  remember  I  sighed  as  Miss  Hardman  quitted  my 
bedside  :  she  caught  the  sound,  and  turning,  said  severely,— 
"  I  fear,  Miss  Grey,  you  have  inherited  in  fullest  measure 
the  worst  sin  of  our  fallen  nature — the  sin  of  pride.  You 
are  proud,  and  therefore  you  are  ungrateful  too.  Mamma 
pays  you  a  handsome  salary ;  and,  if  you  had  average  sense, 
you  would  thankfully  put  up  with  much  that  is  fatiguing  to 
do  and  irksome  to  bear,  since  it  is  so  well  made  worth  your 
while." 

'  Miss  Hardman,  my  love,  was  a  very  strong-minded 
young  lady,  of  most  distinguished  talents  :  the  aristocracy 
are  decidedly  a  very  superior  class,  you  know — both  phy- 
sically, and  morally,  and  mentally— as  a  high  Tory  I 
acknowledge  that — I  could  not  describe  the  dignity  of  her 
voice  and  mien  as  she  addressed  me  thus  :  still,  I  fear,  she 
was  selfish,  my  dear.  I  would  never  wish  to  speak  ill  of 
my  superiors  in  rank ;  but  I  think  she  was  a  little  selfish. 

'  I  remember,'  continued  Mrs.  Pryor,  after  a  pause, 
1  another  of  Mh;s  H.'s  observations,  which  she  would  utter 
with  quite  a  grand  air.  "  WE,"  she  would  say,—"  WE  need 
the  imprudences,  extravagances,  mistakes,  and  crimes  of  a 


MRS.  PKYOB  387 

certain  number  of  fathers  to  sow  the  seed  from  which  WE 
reap  the  harvest  of  governesses.  The  daughters  of  trades- 
people, however  well  educated,  must  necessarily  be  under- 
bred, and  as  such  unfit  to  be  inmates  of  OUR  dwellings,  or 
guardians  of  OUR  children's  minds  and  persons.  WE  shall 
ever  prefer  to  place  those  about  OUR  offspring,  who  have 
been  born  and  bred  with  somewhat  of  the  same  refinement 

as  OURSELVES."  ' 

'  Miss  Hardman  must  have  thought  herself  something 
better  than  her  fellow-creatures,  ma'am,  since  she  held 
that  their  calamities,  and  even  crimes,  were  necessary  to 
minister  to  her  convenience.  You  say  she  was  religious : 
her  religion  must  have  been  that  of  the  Pharisee,  who 
thanked  God  that  he  was  not  as  other  men  are,  nor  even 
as  that  publican.' 

'  My  dear,  we  will  not  discuss  the  point :  I  should  be 
the  last  person  to  wish  to  instil  into  your  mind  any  feeling 
of  dissatisfaction  with  your  lot  in  life,  or  any  sentiment  of 
envy  or  insubordination  towards  your  superiors.  Implicit 
submission  to  authorities,  scrupulous  deference  to  our 
betters  (under  which  term  I,  of  course,  include  the  higher 
classes  of  society)  are,  in  my  opinion,  indispensable  to  the 
wellbeing  of  every  community.  All  I  mean  to  say,  my  dear, 
is,  that  you  had  better  not  attempt  to  be  a  governess,  as 
the  duties  of  the  position  would  be  too  severe  for  your 
constitution.  Not  one  word  of  disrespect  would  I  breathe 
towards  either  Mrs.  or  Miss  Hardman ;  only,  recalling 
my  own  experience,  I  cannot  but  feel  that,  were  you  to  fall 
under  auspices  such  as  theirs,  you  would  contend  a  while 
courageously  with  your  doom :  then  you  would  pine  and 
grow  too  weak  for  your  work  :  you  would  come  home— if  you 
still  had  a  home — broken  down.  Those  languishing  years 
would  follow,  of  which  none  but  the  invalid  and  her  imme- 
diate friends  feel  the  heart-sickness  and  know  the  burden  : 
consumption  or  decline  would  close  the  chapter.  Such  is 
the  history  of  many  a  life  :  I  \vould  not  have  it  yours.  My 
dear,  we  will  now  walk  about  a  little,  if  you  please.' 

*4 


388  SHIBLEY 

They  both  rose  and  slowly  paced  a  green  natural 
terrace  bordering  the  chasm. 

'  My  dear,'  erelong  again  began  Mrs.  Pryor,  a  sort  of 
timid,  embarrassed  abruptness  marking  her  manner  as  she 
spoke,  '  the  young,  especially  those  to  whom  nature  has  been 
favourable — often — frequently — anticipate — look  forward  to 
— to  marriage  as  the  end,  the  goal  of  their  hopes.' 

And  she  stopped.  Caroline  came  to  her  relief  with 
promptitude,  showing  a  great  deal  more  self-possession 
and  courage  than  herself  on  the  formidable  topic  now 
broached. 

'  They  do ;  and  naturally,'  she  replied,  with  a  calm  em- 
phasis that  startled  Mrs.  Pryor.  'They  look  forward  to 
marriage  with  some  one  they  love  as  the  brightest, — the 
only  bright  destiny  that  can  await  them.  Are  they  wrong  ? ' 

'  Oh,  my  dear ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pryor,  clasping  her 
hands  :  and  again  she  paused.  Caroline  turned  a  searching, 
an  eager  eye  on  the  face  of  her  friend :  that  face  was  much 
agitated.  '  My  dear,'  she  murmured,  '  life  is  an  illusion.' 

'  But  not  love  !  Love  is  real :  the  most  real,  the  most 
lasting, — the  sweetest  and  yet  the  bitterest  thing  we  know.1 

'  My  dear — it  is  very  bitter.  It  is  said  to  be  strong — 
strong  as  death.  Most  of  the  cheats  of  existence  are  strong. 
As  to  its  sweetness — nothing  is  so  transitory :  its  date  is  a 
moment, — the  twinkling  of  an  eye  :  the  sting  remains  for 
ever  :  it  may  perish  with  the  dawn  of  eternity,  but  it  tortures 
through  time  into  its  deepest  night.' 

'  Yes,  it  tortures  through  time,'  agreed  Caroline, '  except 
when  it  is  mutual  love.' 

'  Mutual  love  !  My  dear,  romances  are  pernicious.  You 
do  not  read  them,  I  hope  ? ' 

'Sometimes — whenever  I  can  get  them,  indeed;  but 
romance-writers  might  know  nothing  of  love,  judging  by 
the  way  in  which  they  treat  of  it.' 

'  Nothing  whatever,  my  dear ! '  assented  Mrs.  Pryor, 
eagerly  ;  '  nor  of  marriage ;  and  the  false  pictures  they  give 
of  those  subjects  cannot  be  too  strongly  condemned.  They 


MRS.  PEYOE  389 

are  not  like  reality  :  they  show  you  only  the  green  tempting 
surface  of  the  marsh,  and  give  not  one  faithful  or  truthful 
hint  of  the  slough  underneath.' 

'  But  it  is  not  always  slough,'  objected  Caroline :  '  there 
are  happy  marriages.  Where  affection  is  reciprocal  and 
sincere,  and  minds  are  harmonious,  marriage  must  be 
happy.' 

'It  is  never  wholly  happy.  Two  people  can  never 
literally  be  as  one :  there  is,  perhaps,  a  possibility  of  con- 
tent under  peculiar  circumstances,  such  as  are  seldom  com- 
bined ;  but  it  is  as  well  not  to  run  the  risk  :  you  may  make 
fatal  mistakes.  Be  satisfied,  my  dear :  let  all  the  single  be 
satisfied  with  their  freedom.' 

'  You  echo  my  uncle's  words  ! '  exclaimed  Caroline,  in  a 
tone  of  dismay :  '  you  speak  like  Mrs.  Yorke,  in  her  most 
gloomy  moments — like  Miss  Mann,  when  she  is  most 
sourly  and  hypochondriacally  disposed.  This  is  terrible  !  ' 

'  No,  it  is  only  true.  Oh,  child  !  you  have  only  lived  the 
pleasant  morning  time  of  life  :  the  hot,  weary  noon,  the  sad 
evening,  the  sunless  night,  are  yet  to  come  for  you !  Mr. 
Helstone,  you  say,  talks  as  1  talk  ;  and  I  wonder  how  Mrs. 
Matthewson  Helstone  would  have  talked  had  she  been 
living.  She  died  !  she  died  ! ' 

'  And,  alas  !  my  own  mother  and  father.  ..."  exclaimed 
Caroline,  struck  by  a  sombre  recollection. 

1  What  of  them  ? ' 

'  Did  I  never  tell  you  that  they  were  separated  ? ' 

'  I  have  heard  it.' 

'  They  must  then  have  been  very  miserable.  . 

'  You  see  all  facts  go  to  prove  what  I  say.' 

'In  thia  case  there  ought  to  be  no  such  thing  as 
marriage.' 

'  There  ought,  my  dear,  were  it  only  to  prove  that  this 
life  is  a  mere  state  of  probation,  wherein  neither  rest  nor 
recompence  is  to  be  vouchsafed.' 

'  But  your  own  marriage,  Mrs.  Pryor  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Pryor  shrunk  and  shuddered  as  if  a  rude  finger  had 


390  SHIRLEY 

pressed  a  naked  nerve  :  Caroline  felt  she  had  touched  what 
would  not  bear  the  slightest  contact. 

'  My  marriage  was  unhappy,'  said  the  lady,  summoning 
courage  at  last ;  '  but  yet '  she  hesitated. 

'But  yet,'  suggested  Caroline, '  not  immitigably  wretched  ?' 

'  Not  in  its  results,  at  least.  No,  she  added,  in  a  softer 
tone,  '  God  mingles  something  of  the  balm  of  mercy  even  in 
vials  of  the  most  corrosive  woe.  He  can  so  turn  events, 
that  from  the  very  same  blind,  rash  act  whence  sprang  the 
curse  of  half  our  life,  may  flow  the  blessing  of  the  remainder. 
Then,  I  am  of  a  peculiar  disposition,  I  own  that :  far  from 
facile,  without  address,  in  some  points  eccentric.  I  ought 
never  to  have  married  :  mine  is  not  the  nature  easily  to  find 
a  duplicate,  or  likely  to  assimilate  with  a  contrast.  I  was 
quite  aware  of  my  own  ineligibility  :  and  if  I  had  not  been 
so  miserable  as  a  governess,  I  never  should  have  married ; 
and  then ' 

Caroline's  eyes  asked  her  to  proceed  :  they  entreated  her 
to  break  the  thick  cloud  of  despair,  which  her  previous  words 
had  seemed  to  spread  over  life. 

'  And  then,  my  dear,  Mr. ,  that  is,  the  gentleman  I 

married,  was,  perhaps,  rather  an  exceptional  than  an  average 
character.  I  hope,  at  least,  the  experience  of  few  has  been 
such  as  mine  was,  or  that  few  have  felt  their  sufferings  as  I 
felt  mine.  They  nearly  shook  my  mind  :  relief  was  so  hope- 
less, redress  so  unattainable  :  but,  my  dear,  I  do  not  wish  to 
dishearten,  I  only  wish  to  warn  you,  and  to  prove  that  the 
single  should  not  be  too  anxious  to  change  their  state,  as 
they  may  change  for  the  worse.' 

'  Thank  you,  my  dear  madam,  I  quite  understand  your 
kind  intentions ;  but  there  is  no  fear  of  my  falling  into  the 
error  to  which  you  allude.  I,  at  least,  have  no  thoughts  of 
marriage,  and,  for  that  reason,  I  want  to  make  myself  a 
position  by  some  other  means.' 

'  My  dear,  listen  to  me.  On  what  I  am  going  to  say,  I 
have  carefully  deliberated ;  having,  indeed,  revolved  the 
subject  in  my  thoughts  ever  since  you  first  mentioned  your 


MBS.  PfeYOB  391 

wish  to  obtain  a  situation.  You  know  I  at  present  reside 
with  Miss  Keeldar  in  the  capacity  of  companion  :  should  she 
marry  (and  that  she  will  marry  erelong,  many  circumstances 
induce  me  to  conclude),  I  shall  cease  to  be  necessary  to  her 
in  that  capacity.  I  must  tell  you  that  I  possess  a  small 
independency,  arising  partly  from  my  own  savings,  and 
partly  from  a  legacy  left  me  some  years  since ;  whenever  I 
leave  Fieldhead,  I  shall  take  a  house  of  my  own  :  I  could 
not  endure  to  live  in  solitude :  I  have  no  relations  whom  I 
care  to  invite  to  close  intimacy  ;  for,  as  you  must  have 
observed,  and  as  I  have  already  avowed,  my  habits  and 
tastes  have  their  peculiarities :  to  you,  my  dear,  I  need  not 
say  I  am  attached ;  with  you  I  am  happier  than  I  have  ever 
been  with  any  living  thing '  (this  was  said  with  marked 
emphasis).  '  Your  society  I  should  esteem  a  very  dear 
privilege — an  inestimable  privilege,  a  comfort,  a  blessing. 
You  shall  come  to  me  then.  Caroline,  do  you  refuse  me  ? 
1  hope  you  can  love  me  ?  ' 

And  with  these  two  abrupt  questions  she  stopped. 

'  Indeed,  I  do  love  you,'  was  the  reply.  '  I  should  like  to 
live  with  you  :  but  you  are  too  kind.' 

'  All  I  have,'  went  on  Mrs.  Pryor,  '  I  would  leave  to  you  : 
you  should  be  provided  for,  but  never  again  say  I  am  too 
kind.  You  pierce  my  heart,  child  ! ' 

'  But,  my  dear  madam — this  generosity— I  have  no 
claim ' 

'  Hush  !  you  must  not  talk  about  it :  there  are  some 
things  we  cannot  bear  to  hear.  Oh  !  it  is  late  to  begin, 
but  I  may  yet  live  a  few  years :  I  can  never  wipe  out  the 
pant,  but  perhaps  a  brief  space  in  the  future  may  yet  be 
mine ! ' 

Mrs.  Pryor  seemed  deeply  agitated  :  large  tears  trembled 
in  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Caroline  kissed  her, 
in  her  gentle  caressing  way,  saying  softly — '  I  love  you 
dearly.  Don't  cry.' 

But  the  lady's  whole  frame  seemed  shaken  :  she  sat  down, 
bent  her  head  to  her  knee,  and  wept  aloud.  Nothing  could 


392  SHIRLEY 

console  her  till  the  inward  storm  had  had  its  way.  At  last 
the  agony  subsided  of  itself. 

'  Poor  thing  ! '  she  murmured,  returning  Caroline's  kiss  : 
'  poor  lonely  lamb  !  But  come,'  she  added  abruptly ;  '  come, 
we  must  go  home.' 

For  a  short  distance  Mrs.  Pryor  walked  very  fast :  by 
degrees,  however,  she  calmed  down  to  her  wonted  manner, 
fell  into  her  usual  characteristic  pace — a  peculiar  one,  like 
all  her  movements — and  by  the  time  they  reached  Fieldhead, 
she  had  re-entered  into  herself :  the  outside  was,  as  usual, 
still  and  shy. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

TWO   LIVES 

ONLY  half  of  Moore's  activity  and  resolution  had  been  seen 
in  his  defence  of  the  mill :  he  showed  the  other  half  (and  a 
terrible  half  it  was)  in  the  indefatigable,  the  relentless 
assiduity  with  which  he  pursued  the  leaders  of  the  riot.  The 
mob,  the  mere  followers,  he  let  alone :  perhaps  an  innate 
sense  of  justice  told  him  that  men  misled  by  false  counsel, 
goaded  by  privations,  are  not  fit  objects  of  vengeance,  and 
that  he  who  would  visit  an  even  violent  act  on  the  bent  head 
of  suffering,  is  a  tyrant,  not  a  judge.  At  all  events,  though 
he  knew  many  of  the  number,  having  recognised  them  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  attack  when  day  began  to  dawn,  he  let 
them  daily  pass  him  on  street  and  road  without  notice  or 
threat. 

The  leaders  he  did  not  know.  They  were  strangers : 
emissaries  from  the  large  towns.  Most  of  them  were  not 
members  of  the  operative  class :  they  were  chiefly  '  down- 
draughts,'  bankrupts,  men  always  in  debt  and  often  in  drink 
— men  who  had  nothing  to  lose,  and  much — in  the  way  of 
character,  cash,  and  cleanliness — to  gain.  These  persons 
Moore  hunted  like  any  sleuth-hound  ;  and  well  he  liked  the 
occupation  :  its  excitement  was  of  a  kind  pleasant  to  his 
nature  :  he  liked  it  better  than  making  cloth. 

His  horse  must  have  hated  these  times,  for  it  was  ridden 
both  hard  and  often  :  he  almost  lived  on  the  road,  and  the 
fresh  air  was  as  welcome  to  his  lungs  as  the  policeman's 
quest  to  his  mood  :  he  preferred  it  to  the  steam  of  dye- 
houses.  The  magistrates  of  the  district  must  have  dreaded 
him  :  they  were  slow,  timid  men  ;  he  liked  both  to  frighten 


394  SHIRLEY 

and  to  rouse  them.  He  liked  to  force  them  to  betray  a 
certain  fear,  which  made  them  alike  falter  in  resolve  and 
recoil  in  action — the  fear,  simply,  of  assassination.  This, 
indeed,  was  the  dread  which  had  hitherto  hampered  every 
manufacturer  and  almost  every  public  man  in  the  district. 
Helstone  alone  had  ever  repelled  it.  The  old  Cossack  knew 
well  he  might  be  shot :  he  knew  there  was  risk ;  but  such  a 
death  had  for  his  nerves  no  terrors :  it  would  have  been  his 
chosen — might  he  have  had  a  choice. 

Moore  likewise  knew  his  danger  :  the  result  was  an  un- 
quenchable scorn  of  the  quarter  whence  such  danger  was  to 
be  apprehended.  The  consciousness  that  he  hunted  assassins 
was  the  spur  in  his  high-mettled  temper's  flank.  As  for  fear, 
he  was  too  proud — too  hard-natured — (if  you  will) — too 
phlegmatic  a  man  to  fear.  Many  a  time  he  rode  belated 
over  moors,  moonlit  or  moonless  as  the  case  might  be,  with 
feelings  far  more  elate,  faculties  far  better  refreshed,  than 
when  safety  and  stagnation  environed  him  in  the  counting- 
house.  Four  was  the  number  of  the  leaders  to  be  accounted 
for :  two,  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight,  were  brought  to  bay 
near  Stilbro' ;  the  remaining  two  it  was  necessaiy  to  seek 
further  off :  their  haunts  were  supposed  to  lie  near  Birming- 
ham. 

Meantime,  the  clothier  did  not  neglect  his  battered  mill : 
its  reparation  was  esteemed  a  light  task ;  carpenters'  and 
glaziers'  work  alone  being  needed.  The  rioters  not  having 
succeeded  in  effecting  an  entrance,  his  grim,  metal  darlings 
— the  machines — had  escaped  damage. 

Whether,  during  this  busy  life — whether,  while  stern 
justice  and  exacting  business  claimed  his  energies  and 
harassed  his  thoughts — he  now  and  then  gave  one  moment, 
dedicated  one  effort,  to  keep  alive  gentler  fires  than  those 
which  smoulder  in  the  fane  of  Nemesis,  it  was  not  easy  to 
discover.  He  seldom  went  near  Fieldhead  ;  if  he  did,  his 
visits  were  brief :  if  he  called  at  the  Rectory,  it  was  only  to 
hold  conferences  with  the  Rector  in  his  study.  He  main- 
tained his  rigid  course  very  steadily.  Meantime,  the  history 


TWO   LIVES  395 

of  the  year  continued  troubled  :  there  was  no  lull  in  the 
tempest  of  war  ;  her  long  hurricane  still  swept  the  Continent. 
There  was  not  the  faintest  sign  of  serene  weather  :  no  opening 
amid  '  the  clouds  of  battle-dust  and  smoke ; '  no  fall  of  pure 
dews  genial  to  the  olive  ;  no  cessation  of  the  red  rain  which 
nourishes  the  baleful  and  glorious  laurel.  Meantime,  Kuin 
had  her  sappers  and  miners  at  work  under  Moore's  feet, 
and  whether  he  rode  or  walked — whether  he  only  crossed 
his  counting-house  hearth,  or  galloped  over  sullen  Bushedge 
—he  was  aware  of  a  hollow  echo,  and  felt  the  ground  shake 
to  his  tread. 

While  the  summer  thus  passed  with  Moore,  how  did  it 
lapse  with  Shirley  and  Caroline  ?  Let  us  first  visit  the 
heiress.  How  does  she  look  ?  Like  a  love-lorn  maiden, 
pale  and  pining  for  a  neglectful  swain  ?  Does  she  sit  the 
day  long  bent  over  some  sedentary  task  ?  Has  she  for  ever 
a  book  in  her  hand,  or  sewing  on  her  knee,  and  eyes  only  for 
that,  and  words  for  nothing,  and  thoughts  unspoken  ? 

By  no  means.  Shirley  is  all  right.  If  her  wistful  cast 
of  physiognomy  is  not  gone,  no  more  is  her  careless  smile. 
She  keeps  her  dark  old  manor-house  light  and  bright  with 
her  cheery  presence :  the  gallery,  and  the  low-ceiled 
chambers  that  open  into  it,  have  learned  lively  echoes  from 
her  voice  :  the  dim  entrance-hall,  with  its  one  window,  has 
grown  pleasantly  accustomed  to  the  frequent  rustle  of  a  silk 
dress,  as  its  wearer  sweeps  across  from  room  to  room,  now 
carrying  flowers  to  the  barbarous  peach-bloom  salon,  now 
entering  the  dining-room  to  open  its  casements  and  let  in  the 
scent  of  mignonette  and  sweetbrier,  anon  bringing  plants 
from  the  staircase-window  to  place  in  the  sun  at  the  open 
porch-door. 

She  takes  her  sewing  occasionally :  but,  by  some  fatality, 
she  is  doomed  never  to  sit  steadily  at  it  for  above  five  minutes 
at  a  time  :  her  thimble  is  scarcely  fitted  on,  her  needle  scarce 
threaded,  when  a  sudden  thought  calls  her  up-stairs  :  perhaps 
she  goes  to  seek  some  just-then-remembered  old  ivory-backed 
needle-book,  or  older  china-topped  workbox,  quite  unneeded, 


396  SHIBLEY 

but  which  seems  at  the  moment  indispensable  ;  perhaps  to 
arrange  her  hair,  or  a  drawer  which  she  recollects  to  have 
seen  that  morning  in  a  state  of  curious  confusion  ;  perhaps 
only  to  take  a  peep  from  a  particular  window  at  a  particular 
view,  whence  Briarfield  Church  and  Eectory  are  visible, 
pleasantly  bowered  in  trees.  She  has  scarcely  returned, 
and  again  taken  up  the  slip  of  cambric,  or  square  of  half- 
wrought  canvas,  when  Tartar's  bold  scrape  and  strangled 
whistle  are  heard  at  the  porch-door,  and  she  must  run  to 
open  it  for  him;  it  is  a  hot  day;  he  comes  in  panting  ;  she 
must  convoy  him  to  the  kitchen,  and  see  with  her  own  eyes 
that  his  water-bowl  is  replenished.  Through  the  open 
kitchen-door  the  court  is  visible,  all  sunny  and  gay,  and 
peopled  with  turkeys  and  their  poults,  peahens  and  their 
chicks,  pearl-flecked  guinea-fowls,  and  a  bright  variety  of 
pure  white,  and  purple-necked,  and  blue  and  cinnamon- 
plumed  pigeons.  Irresistible  spectacle  to  Shirley !  She 
runs  to  the  pantry  for  a  roll,  and  she  stands  on  the  doorstep 
scattering  crumbs :  around  her  throng  her  eager,  plump, 
happy,  feathered  vassals.  John  is  about  the  stables,  and 
John  must  be  talked  to,  and  her  mare  looked  at.  She  is 
still  petting  and  patting  it,  when  the  cows  came  in  to  be 
milked :  this  is  important ;  Shirley  must  stay  and  take  a 
review  of  them  all.  There  are  perhaps  some  little  calves, 
some  little  new-yeaned  lambs — it  may  be  twins,  whose 
mothers  have  rejected  them  :  Miss  Keeldar  must  be  intro- 
duced to  them  by  John — must  permit  herself  the  treat  of 
feeding  them  with  her  own  hand,  under  the  direction  of  her 
careful  foreman.  Meantime,  John  moots  doubtful  questions 
about  the  farming  of  certain  '  crofts,'  and  '  ings,'  and  '  holms,' 
and  his  mistress  is  necessitated  to  fetch  her  garden-hat — a 
gipsy-straw— and  accompany  him,  over  stile  and  along 
hedge-row,  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  agricultural 
matter  on  the  spot,  and  with  the  said  '  crofts,'  '  ings,'  and 
'  holms '  under  her  eye.  Bright  afternoon  thus  wears  into 
soft  evening,  and  she  comes  home  to  a  late  tea,  and  after 
tea  she  never  sews. 


TWO   LIVES  397 

After  tea  Shirley  reads,  and  she  is  just  about  as  tenacious 
of  her  book  as  she  is  lax  of  her  needle.  Her  study  is  the 
rug,  her  seat  a  footstool,  or  perhaps  only  the  carpet  at  Mrs. 
Pryor's  feet — there  she  always  learned  her  lessons  when  a 
child,  and  old  habits  have  a  strong  power  over  her.  The 
tawny  and  lion-like  bulk  of  Tartar  is  ever  stretched  beside 
her ;  his  negro  muzzle  laid  on  his  fore  paws,  straight,  strong, 
and  shapely  as  the  limbs  of  an  Alpine  wolf.  One  hand  of 
the  mistress  generally  reposes  on  the  loving  sei'f's  rude 
head,  because  if  she  takes  it  away  he  groans  and  is  dis- 
contented. Shirley's  mind  is  given  to  her  book  ;  she  lifts 
not  her  eyes ;  she  neither  stirs  nor  speaks ;  unless,  indeed, 
it  be  to  return  a  brief  respectful  answer  to  Mrs.  Pryor,  who 
addresses  deprecatory  phrases  to  her  now  and  then. 

4  My  dear,  you  had  better  not  have  that  great  dog  so  near 
you :  he  is  crushing  the  border  of  your  dress.' 

'  Oh,  it  is  only  muslin :  I  can  put  a  clean  one  on  to- 
morrow.' 

'  My  dear,  I  wish  you  could  acquire  the  habit  of  sitting 
to  a  table  when  you  read.' 

4 1  will  try,  ma'am,  some  time ;  but  it  is  so  comfortable 
to  do  as  one  has  always  been  accustomed  to  do.' 

'  My  dear,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  put  that  book  down  :  you 
are  trying  your  eyes  by  the  doubtful  firelight.' 

4  No,  ma'am,  not  at  all :  my  eyes  are  never  tired.' 

At  last,  however,  a  pale  light  falls  on  the  page  from  the 
window  :  she  looks,  the  moon  is  up ;  she  closes  the  volume, 
rises,  and  walks  through  the  room.  Her  book  has  perhaps 
been  a  good  one ;  it  has  refreshed,  refilled,  re  warmed  her 
heart ;  it  has  set  her  brain  astir,  furnished  her  mind  with 
pictures.  The  still  parlour,  the  clean  hearth,  the  window 
opening  on  the  twilight  sky,  and  showing  its  '  sweet  regent,' 
new  throned  and  glorious,  suffice  to  make  earth  an  Eden, 
life  a  poem,  for  Shirley.  A  still,  deep,  inborn  delight  glows  in 
her  young  veins  ;  unmingled — untroubled  ;  not  to  be  reached 
or  ravished  by  human  agency,  because  by  no  human  agency 
bestowed :  the  pure  gift  of  God  to  His  creature,  the  free 


398  SHIRLEY 

dower  of  Nature  to  her  child.  This  joy  gives  her  experience 
of  a  genii-life.  Buoyant,  by  green  steps,  by  glad  hills,  all 
verdure  and  light,  she  reaches  a  station  scarcely  lower  than 
that  whence  angels  looked  down  on  the  dreamer  of  Beth-el, 
and  her  eye  seeks,  and  her  soul  possesses,  the  vision  of  life 
as  she  wishes  it.  No — not  as  she  wishes  it ;  she  has  not 
time  to  wish  :  the  swift  glory  spreads  out,  sweeping  and 
kindling,  and  multiplies  its  splendours  faster  than  Thought 
can  effect  his  combinations,  faster  than  Aspiration  can  utter 
her  longings.  Shirley  says  nothing  while  the  trance  is  upon 
her — she  is  quite  mute  ;  but  if  Mrs.  Pry  or  speaks  to  her  now, 
she  goes  out  quietly,  and  continues  her  walk  up-stairs  in  the 
dim  gallery. 

If  Shirley  were  not  an  indolent,  a  reckless,  an  ignorant 
being,  she  would  take  a  pen  at  such  moments ;  or  at  least 
while  the  recollection  of  such  moments  was  yet  fresh  on  her 
spirit :  she  would  seize,  she  would  fix  the  apparition,  tell  the 
vision  revealed.  Had  she  a  little  more  of  the  organ  of 
acquisitiveness  in  her  head — a  little  more  of  the  love  of 
property  in  her  nature,  she  would  take  a  good-sized  sheet 
of  paper  and  write  plainly  out,  in  her  own  queer  but  clear 
and  legible  hand,  the  story  that  has  been  narrated,  the  song 
that  has  been  sung  to  her,  and  thus  possess  what  she  was 
enabled  to  create.  But  indolent  she  is,  reckless  she  is,  and 
most  ignorant,  for  she  does  not  know  her  dreams  are  rare — 
her  feelings  peculiar:  she  does  not  know,  has  never  known, 
and  will  die  without  knowing,  the  full  value  of  that  spring 
whose  bright  fresh  bubbling  in  her  heart  keeps  it  green. 

Shirley  takes  life  easily  :  is  not  that  fact  written  in  her 
eye  ?  In  her  good-tempered  moments,  is  it  not  as  full  of 
la/y  softness  as  in  her  brief  fits  of  anger  it  is  fulgent  with 
quick-flashing  fire  ?  Her  nature  is  in  her  eye  :  so  long  as 
she  is  calm,  indolence,  indulgence,  humour,  and  tenderness 
possess  that  large  gray  sphere  :  incense  her, — a  red  ray 
pierces  the  dew, — it  quickens  instantly  to  flame. 

Ere  the  month  of  July  was  passed,  Miss  Keeldar  would 
probably  have  started  with  Caroline  on  that  northern  tour 


TWO  LIVES  390 

they  had  planned  ;  but  just  at  that  epoch  an  invasion  befell 
Fieldhead :  a  genteel  foraging  party  besieged  Shirley  in  her 
castle,  and  compelled  her  to  surrender  at  discretion.  An 
uncle,  an  aunt,  and  two  cousins  from  the  south,  a  Mr.,  Mrs., 

and   two   Misses  Sympson,  of   Sympson  Grove,  shire, 

came  down  upon  her  in  state.  The  laws  of  hospitality 
obliged  her  to  give  in,  which  she  did  with  a  facility  which 
somewhat  surprised  Caroline,  who  knew  her  to  be  prompt 
in  action  and  fertile  in  expedient,  where  a  victory  was  to  be 
gained  for  her  will.  Miss  Helstone  even  asked  her  how  it 
was  she  submitted  so  readily  ? — she  answered,  old  feelings 
had  their  power :  she  had  passed  two  years  of  her  early 
youth  at  Sympson  Grove. 

'  How  did  she  like  her  relatives  ?  ' 

She  had  nothing  in  common  with  them,  she  replied  : 
little  Harry  Sympson,  indeed,  the  sole  son  of  the  family, 
was  very  unlike  his  sisters,  and  of  him  she  had  formerly 
been  fond  ;  but  he  was  not  coming  to  Yorkshire  :  at  least, 
not  yet. 

The  next  Sunday  the  Fieldhead  pew  in  Briarfield  church 
appeared  peopled  with  a  prim,  trim,  fidgety,  elderly  gentle- 
man, who  shifted  his  spectacles  and  changed  his  position 
every  three  minutes ;  a  patient,  placid-looking  elderly  lady, 
in  brown  satin,  and  two  pattern  young  ladies,  in  pattern 
attire,  with  pattern  deportment.  Shirley  had  the  air  of  a 
black  swan,  or  a  white  crow,  in  the  midst  of  this  party ;  and 
very  forlorn  was  her  aspect.  Having  brought  her  into 
respectable  society,  we  will  leave  her  there  awhile,  and  look 
after  Miss  Helstone. 

Separated  from  Miss  Keeldar  for  the  present,  as  she 
could  not  seek  her  in  the  midst  of  her  fine  relatives  ;  scaredj 
away  from  Fieldhead  by  the  visiting  commotion  which  the 
new  arrivals  occasioned  in  the  neighbourhood,  Caroline  was 
limited  once  more  to  the  gray  Rectory  ;  the  solitary  morning 
walk  in  remote  bypaths,  the  long,  lonely  afternoon  sitting  in 
a  quiet  parlour  which  the  sun  forsook  at  noon,  or  in  the 
garden  alcove  where  it  shone  bright,  yet  sad,  on  the  ripening 


400  SHIELEi 

red  currants  trained  over  the  trellis,  and  on  the  fair  monthly 
roses  entwined  between,  and  through  them  fell  chequered  on 
Caroline  sitting  in  her  white  summer  dress,  still  as  a  garden 
statue.  There  she  read  old  books,  taken  from  her  uncle's 
library  :  the  Greek  and  Latin  were  of  no  use  to  her  ;  and  its 
collection  of  light  literature  was  chiefly  contained  on  a  shelf 
which  had  belonged  to  her  aunt  Mary  :  some  venerable 
Lady's  Magazines,  that  had  once  performed  a  sea-voyago 
with  their  owner,  and  undergone  a  sfcorm,  and  whose  pages 
were  stained  with  salt  water ;  some  mad  Methodist  Maga- 
zines, full  of  miracles  and  apparitions,  of  preternatural 
warnings,  ominous  dreams,  and  frenzied  fanaticism ;  the 
equally  mad  letters  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Rowe  from  the  Dead 
to  the  Living ;  a  few  old  English  Classics  : — from  these 
faded  flowers  Caroline  had  in  her  childhood  extracted  the 
honey, — they  were  tasteless  to  her  now.  By  way  of  change, 
and  also  of  doing  good,  she  would  sew  :  make  garments  for 
the  poor,  according  to  good  Miss  Ainley's  direction.  Some- 
times as  she  felt  and  saw  her  tears  fall  slowly  on  her  work, 
she  would  wonder  how  the  excellent  woman  who  had  cut  it 
out  and  arranged  it  for  her,  managed  to  be  so  equably  serene 
in  her  solitude. 

'  I  never  find  Miss  Ainley  oppressed  with  despondency, 
or  lost  in  grief,'  she  thought ;  '  yet  her  cottage  is  a  still,  dim 
little  place,  and  she  is  without  a  bright  hope  or  near  friend 
in  the  world.  I  remember,  though,  she  told  me  once,  she 
had  tutored  her  thoughts  to  tend  upwards  to  Heaven.  She 
allowed  there  was,  and  ever  ha'l  been,  little  enjoyment  in 
this  world  for  her,  and  she  looks,  I  suppose,  to  the  bliss  of 
the  world  to  come.  So  do  nuns— with  their  close  cell,  their 
iron  lamp,  their  robe  straight  as  a  shroud,  their  bed 
narrow  as  a  coffin.  She  says,  often,  she  has  no  fear  of  death 
— no  dread  of  the  grave  :  no  more,  doubtless,  had  St.  Simeon 
Stylites,  lifted  up  terrible  on  his  wild  column  in  the  wilder- 
ness :  no  more  has  the  Hindoo  votary  stretched  on  his 
couch  of  iron  spikes.  Both  these  having  violated  nature, 
their  natural  likinga  and  antipathies  are  reversed:  they 


TWO   LIVES  401 

grow  altogether  morbid.  I  do  fear  death  as  yet,  but  I 
believe  it  is  because  I  am  young :  poor  Miss  Ainley  would 
cling  closer  to  life,  if  life  had  more  charms  for  her.  God 
surely  did  not  create  us,  and  cause  us  to  Jive,  with  the  sole 
end  of  wishing  always  to  die.  I  believe  in  my  heart  we 
were  intended  to  prize  life  and  enjoy  it,  so  long  as  we  retain 
it.  Existence  never  was  originally  meant  to  be  that  useless, 
blank,  pale,  slow-trailing  thing  it  often  becomes  to  many, 
and  is  becoming  to  me  among  the  rest. 

'  Nobody,'  she  went  on — '  nobody  in  particular  is  to 
blame,  that  I  can  see,  for  the  state  in  which  things  are  : 
and  I  cannot  tell,  however  much  I  puzzle  over  it,  how  they 
are  to  be  altered  for  the  better ;  but  I  feel  there  is  something 
wrong  somewhere.  I  believe  single  women  should  have 
more  to  do — better  chances  of  interesting  and  profitable 
occupation  than  they  possess  now.  And  when  I  speak  thus, 
I  have  no  impression  that  I  displease  God  by  my  words : 
that  I  am  either  impious  or  impatient,  irreligious  or  sacri- 
legious. My  consolation  is,  indeed,  that  God  hears  many  a 
groan,  and  compassionates  much  grief  which  man  stops  his 
ears  against,  or  frowns  on  with  impotent  contempt.  I  say 
impotent,  for  I  observe  that  to  such  grievances  as  society 
cannot  readily  cure,  it  usually  forbids  utterance,  on  pain  of 
its  scorn  :  this  scorn  being  only  a  sort  of  tinselled  cloak  to 
its  deformed  weakness.  People  hate  to  be  reminded  of  ills 
they  are  unable  or  unwilling  to  remedy  :  such  reminder,  in 
forcing  on  them  a  sense  of  their  own  incapacity,  or  a  more 
painful  sense  of  an  obligation  to  make  some  unpleasant 
effort,  troubles  their  ease  and  shakes  their  self-complacency. 
Old  maids,  like  the  houseless  and  unemployed  poor,  should 
not  ask  for  a  place  and  an  occupation  in  the  world  :  the 
demand  disturbs  the  happy  and  rich  :  it  di.sturbs  parents. 
Look  at  the  numerous  families  of  girls  in  this  neighbour- 
hood :  the  Armitages,  the  Birtwhisties,  the  Sykeses.  The 
brothers  of  these  girls  are  every  one  in  business  or  in  pro- 
fessions ;  they  have  something  to  do:  their  sisters  have 
no  earthly  employment,  but  household  work  and  sewing; 


402  SHIELEY 

no  earthly  pleasure,  but  an   unprofitable  visiting ;  and  no 
hope,  in  all  their  life  to  come,  of  anything   better.     This 
stagnant  state  of  things  makes  them  decline  in  health  :  they 
are  never  well ;  and  their  minds  and  views  shrink  to  wondrous 
narrowness.     The  great  wish — the  sole  aim  of  every  one  of 
them  is  to  be  married,  but  the  majority  will  never  marry : 
they  will  die  as  they  now  live.     They  scheme,  they  plot, 
they  dress  to  ensnare  husbands.     The  gentlemen  turn  them 
into  ridicule :  they  don't  want  them  ;  they  hold  them  very 
cheap  :  they  say — I  have  heard  them  say  it  with  sneering 
laughs  many  a  time — the  matrimonial  market  is  overstocked. 
Fathers  say  so  likewise,  and  are  angry  with  their  daughters 
when  they  observe  their  manoeuvres  :  they  order  them  to 
stay  at  home.     What  do  they  expect  them  to  do  at  home  ? 
If  you  ask,  they  would  answer,  sew  and  cook.     They  expect 
them   to   do   this,   and    this    only,   contentedly,   regularly, 
uncomplainingly  all  their  lives  long,  as  if  they  had  no  germs 
of  faculties  for  anything  else :  a  doctrine  as  reasonable  to 
hold,  as  it  would  be  that  the  fathers  have  no  faculties  but 
for  eating  what  their  daughters  cook,  or  for  wearing  what 
they  sew.     Could  men  live  so  themselves  ?     Would  they  not 
be  very  weary  ?     And,  when  there  came  no  relief  to  their 
weariness,  but  only  reproaches  at  its   slightest  manifesta- 
tion, would  not  their  weariness  ferment  in  time  to  frenzy. 
Lucretia,  spinning  at  midnight  in  the  midst  of  her  maidens, 
and  Solomon's  virtuous  woman,  are  often  quoted  as  patterns 
of  what  "  the  sex  "  (as  they  say)  ought  to  be.     I  don't  know  : 
Lucretia,  I  daresay,  was  a  most  worthy  sort  of  person,  much 
like  my  cousin  Hortense  Moore  ;  but  she  kept  her  servants 
up  very  late.     I  should  not  have  liked  to  be  amongst  the 
number  of  the  maidens.     Hortense  would  just  work  me  and 
Sarah  in  that  fashion,  if  she  could,  and  neither  of  us  would 
bear  it.     The  "  virtuous  woman,"  again,  had  her  household 
up   in    the   very  middle  of  the   night ;  she  "  got  breakfast 
over  "  (as  Mrs.  Sykes  says)  before  one  o'clock  A.M.  ;  but  she 
had  something  more  to  do  than  spin  and  give  out  portions  : 
she  was  a  manufacturer-  she  made  fine  linen  and  sold  it : 


TWO   LIVES  403 

she  was  an  agriculturist — she  bought  estates  and  planted 
vineyards.     That  woman  was  a  manager :  she  was  what  the 
matrons  hereabouts  call  "  a  clever  woman."     On  the  whole, 
I  like  her  a  good  deal  better  than   Lucretia;    but  I  don't 
believe  either  Mr.  Armitage  or  Mr.  Sykes  could   have  got 
the  advantage  of  her  in  a  bargain  :  yet  I  like  her.    "  Strength 
and  honour  wei'e  her  clothing  :  the  heart  of  her  husband 
safely  trusted  in  her.     She  opened  her  mouth  with  wisdom  ; 
in  her  tongue  was  the  law  of  kindness :  her  children  rose  up 
and  called   her   blessed;    her   husband   also   praised   her.'' 
King  of  Israel !  your  model  of  a  woman  is  a  worthy  model ! 
But  are  we,  in  these  days,  brought  up  to  be  like  her  ?     Men 
of  Yorkshire  !  do  your  daughters  reach  this  royal  standard  ? 
Can  they  reach  it  ?     Can  you  help  them  to  reach  it  ?     Can 
you   give   them   a   field  in   which   their   faculties   may  be 
exercised  and  grow  ?     Men  of  England  !  look  at  your  poor 
girls,  many  of  them  fading  around  you,  dropping  off  in  con- 
sumption or  decline ;  or,   what  is   worse,   degenerating  to 
sour  old  maids, — envious,  backbiting,  wretched,  because  life 
is  a  desert  to  them;  or,  what  is  worst  of  all,  reduced  to 
strive,  by  scarce  modest  coquetry  and  debasing  artifice,  to 
gain  that  position  and  consideration  by  marriage,  which  to 
celibacy  is  denied.     Fathers  !  cannot  you  alter  these  things  ? 
Perhaps  not  all  at  once  ;  but  consider  the  matter  well  when 
it  is  brought  before  you,  receive  it  as  a  theme  worthy  of 
thought :  do  not  dismiss  it  with  an  idle  jest  or  an  unmanly 
insult.     You  would  wish  to  be  proud  of  your  daughters  and 
not  to  blush  for  them — then  seek  for  them  an  interest  and 
an  occupation  which  shall  raise  them  above  the  flirt,  the 
manoeuvrer,  the  mischief-making  tale-bearer.      Keep   your 
girls'  minds  narrow  and  fettered — they  will  still  be  a  plague 
and  a  care,  sometimes  a  disgrace  to  you  :  cultivate  them— - 
give  them  scope  and  work — they  will  be  your  gayest  com- 
panions in  health  ;  your  tenderest  nurses  in  sickness  ;  your 
most  faithful  props  in  age.' 


CHAPTEB  XXIII 

AN   EVENING  OUT 

ONE  fine  summer  day  that  Caroline  had  spent  entirely  alone 
(her  uncle  being  at  Whinbury),  and  whose  long,  bright, 
noiseless,  breezeless,  cloudless  hours  (how  many  they 
seemed  since  sunrise  !)  had  been  to  her  as  desolate  as  if 
they  had  gone  over  her  head  in  the  shadowless  and  trackless 
wastes  of  Zahara,  instead  of  in  the  blooming  garden  of  an 
English  home,  she  was  sitting  in  the  alcove, — her  task  of 
work  on  her  knee,  her  fingers  assiduously  plying  the  needle, 
her  eyes  following  and  regulating  their  movements,  her 
brain  working  restlessly, — when  Fanny  came  to  the  door, 
looked  round  over  the  lawn  and  borders,  and  not  seeing  her 
whom  she  sought,  called  out, — '  Miss  Caroline  !  ' 

A  low  voice  answered — '  Fanny  1 '  It  issued  from  the 
alcove,  and  thither  Fanny  hastened — a  note  in  her  hand, 
which  she  delivered  to  fingers  that  hardly  seemed  to  have 
nerve  to  hold  it.  Miss  Helstone  did  not  ask  whence  it  came, 
and  she  did  not  look  at  it :  she  let  it  drop  amongst  the  folds 
of  her  work. 

'  Joe  Scott's  son,  Harry,  brought  it,'  said  Fanny. 

The  girl  was  no  enchantress,  and  knew  no  magic-spell, 
yet  what  she  said  took  almost  magical  effect  on  her  young 
mistress  :  she  lifted  her  head  with  the  quick  motion  of  revived 
sensation  ;  she  shot — not  a  languid,  but  a  life-like,  question- 
ing glance  at  Fanny. 

'  Hariy  Scott !     Who  sent  him  ? ' 

1  He  came  from  the  Hollow.' 


AN  EVENING  OUT  405 

The  dropped  note  was  snatched  up  eagerly — the  seal 
was  broken  :  it  was  read  in  two  seconds.  An  affectionate 
billet  from  Hortense,  informing  her  young  cousin  that  she 
was  returned  from  Wormwood  Wells  ;  that  she  was  alone 
to-day,  as  Kobert  was  gone  to  Whinbury  market;  that 
nothing  would  give  her  greater  pleasure  than  to  have 
Caroline's  company  to  tea  ;  and — the  good  lady  added — she 
was  sure  such  a  change  would  be  most  acceptable  and 
beneficial  to  Caroline,  who  must  be  sadly  at  a  loss  both  for 
safe  guidance  and  improving  society  since  the  misunder- 
standing between  Kobert  and  Mr.  Helstone  had  occasioned 
a  separation  from  her  '  meilleure  amie,  Hortense  Gerard 
Moore.'  In  a  postscript,  she  was  urged  to  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  run  down  directly. 

Caroline  did  not  need  the  injunction :  glad  was  she  to 
lay  by  the  child's  brown  holland  slip  she  was  trimming  with 
braid  for  the  Jews'  basket,  to  hasten  up-stairs,  cover  her 
curls  with  her  straw  bonnet,  and  throw  round  her  shoulders 
the  black  silk  scarf,  whose  simple  drapery  suited  as  well  her 
shape  as  its  dark  hue  set  off  the  purity  of  her  dress  and  the 
fairness  of  her  face ;  glad  was  she  to  escape  for  a  few  hours 
the  solitude,  the  sadness,  the  nightmare  of  her  life ;  glad  to 
run  down  the  green  lane  sloping  to  the  Hollow,  to  scent  the 
fragrance  of  hedge-flowers  sweeter  than  the  perfume  of  moss- 
rose  or  lily.  True,  she  knew  Robert  was  not  at  the  cottage ; 
but  it  was  delight  to  go  where  he  had  lately  been  :  so  long, 
so  totally  separated  from  him,  merely  to  see  his  home,  to 
enter  the  room  where  he  had  that  morning  sat,  felt  like  a 
reunion.  As  such  it  revived  her;  and  then  Illusion  was 
again  following  her  in  Perimask  :  the  soft  agitation  of  wings 
caressed  her  cheek,  and  the  air,  breathing  from  the  blue 
summer  sky,  bore  a  voice  which  whispered — '  Eobert  may 
come  home  while  you  are  in  his  house  ;  and  then,  at  least, 
you  may  look  in  his  face — at  least,  you  may  give  him  your 
hand  ;  perhaps,  for  a  minute,  you  may  sit  beside  him.' 

'  Silence  ! '  was  her  austere  response  :  but  she  loved  the 
comforter  and  the  consolation. 


406  SHIBLEY 

Miss  Moore  probably  caught  from  the  window  the  gleam 
and  flutter  of  Caroline's  white  attire  through  the  branchy 
garden-shrubs,  for  she  advanced  from  the  cottage-porch  to 
meet  her.  Straight,  unbending,  phlegmatic  as  usual,  she 
came  on  :  no  haste  or  ecstacy  was  ever  permitted  to  disorder 
the  dignity  of  Jicr  movements ;  but  she  smiled,  well  pleased 
to  mark  the  delight  of  her  pupil,  to  feel  her  kiss,  and  the 
gentle,  genial  strain  of  her  embrace.  She  led  her  tenderly 
in — half  deceived  and  wholly  flattered.  Half  deceived !  had 
it  not  been  so,  she  would  in  all  probability  have  put  her  to 
the  wicket,  and  shut  her  out.  Had  she  known  clearly  to 
whose  account  the  chief  share  of  this  child-like  joy  was  to  be 
placed,  Hortense  would  most  likely  have  felt  both  shocked 
and  incensed.  Sisters  do  not  like  young  ladies  to  fall  in 
love  with  their  brothers :  it  seems,  if  not  presumptuous, 
silly,  weak,  a  delusion,  an  absurd  mistake.  TJiey  do  not 
love  these  gentlemen — whatever  sisterly  affection  they  may 
cherish  towards  them — and  that  others  should,  repels  them 
with  a  sense  of  crude  romance.  The  first  movement,  in 
short,  excited  by  such  discovery  (as  with  many  parents  on 
finding  their  children  to  be  in  love),  is  one  of  mixed 
impatience  and  contempt.  Eeason— if  they  be  rational 
people — corrects  the  false  feeling  in  time  ;  but  if  they  be 
irrational,  it  is  never  corrected,  and  the  daughter  or  sister- 
in-law  is  disliked  to  the  end. 

'  You  would  expect  to  find  me  alone,  from  what  I  said  in 
my  note,'  observed  Miss  Moore,  as  she  conducted  Caroline 
towards  the  parlour ;  but  it  was  written  this  morning  :  since 
dinner,  company  has  come  in.' 

And,  opening  the  door,  she  made  visible  an  ample  spread 
of  crimson  skirts  overflowing  the  elbow-chair  at  the  fireside, 
and  above  them,  presiding  with  dignity,  a  cap  more  awful 
than  a  crown.  That  cap  had  never  come  to  the  cottage 
under  a  bonnet :  no,  it  had  been  brought,  in  a  vast  bag, 
or  rather  a  middle-sized  balloon  of  black  silk,  held  wide 
with  whalebone.  Tbe  screed,  or  frill  of  the  cap,  stood  a 
quarter  of  a  yard  broad  round  the  face  of  the  wearer  :  the 


AN  EVENING  OUT  407 

ribbon,  flourishing  in  puffs  and  bows  about  the  head,  was  of 
the  sort  called  love-ribbon  :  there  was  a  good  deal  of  it, — I 
may  say,  a  very  great  deal.  Mrs.  Yorke  wore  the  cap — it 
became  her  :  she  wore  the  gown  also — it  suited  her  no  less. 
That  great  lady  was  come  in  a  friendly  way  to  take  tea 
with  Miss  Moore.  It  was  almost  as  great  and  as  rare  a 
favour  as  if  the  Queen  were  to  go  uninvited  to  share  pot-luck 
with  one  of  her  subjects  :  a  higher  mark  of  distinction  she 
could  not  show, — she  who,  in  general,  scorned  visiting  and 
tea-drinking,  and  held  cheap,  and  stigmatised  as  '  gossips,' 
every  maid  and  matron  of  the  vicinage. 

There  was  no  mistake,  however ;  Miss  Moore  was  a 
favourite  with  her :  she  had  evinced  the  fact  more  than 
once  ;  evinced  it  by  stopping  to  speak  to  her  in  the  church- 
yard on  Sundays ;  by  inviting  her,  almost  hospitably,  to 
come  to  Briarmains  ;  evinced  it  to-day  by  the  grand  conde- 
scension of  a  personal  visit.  Her  reasons  for  the  preference, 
as  assigned  by  herself,  were,  that  Miss  Moore  was  a 
woman  of  steady  deportment,  without  the  least  levity  of 
conversation  or  carriage  ;  also,  that,  being  a  foreigner,  she 
must  feel  the  want  of  a  friend  to  countenance  her.  She 
might  have  added,  that  her  plain  aspect,  homely  precise 
dress,  and  phlegmatic  unattractive  manner  were,  to  her, 
so  many  additional  recommendations.  It  is  certain,  at 
least,  that  ladies  remarkable  for  the  opposite  qualities  of 
beauty,  lively  bearing,  and  elegant  taste  in  attire,  were  not 
often  favoured  with  her  approbation.  Whatever  gentlemen 
are  apt  to  admire  in  women,  Mrs.  Yorke  condemned  ;  and 
what  they  overlook  or  despise,  she  patronised. 

Caroline  advanced  to  the  mighty  matron  with  some 
sense  of  diffidence  :  she  knew  little  of  Mrs.  Yorke ;  and,  as 
a  parson's  niece,  was  doubtful  what  sort  of  a  reception  she 
might  get.  She  got  a  very  cool  one,  and  was  glad  to  hide 
her  discomfiture  by  turning  away  to  take  off  her  bonnet. 
Nor,  upon  sitting  down,  was  she  displeased  to  be  im- 
mediately accosted  by  a  little  personage  in  a  blue  frock  and 
sash,  who  started  up  like  some  fairy  from  the  side  of  the 


408  SHIRLEY 

great  dame's  chair,  where  she  had  been  sitting  on  a  foot- 
stool, screened  from  view  by  the  folds  of  the  wide  red  gown, 
and  running  to  Miss  Helstone,  unceremoniously  threw  her 
arms  round  her  neck  and  demanded  a  kiss. 

1  My  mother  is  not  civil  to  you,'  said  the  petitioner,  as 
she  received  and  repaid  a  smiling  salute  ;  '  and  Rose,  there, 
takes  no  notice  of  you  :  it  is  their  way.  If,  instead  of  you, 
a  white  angel,  with  a  crown  of  stars,  had  come  into  the 
room,  mother  would  nod  stiffly,  and  Rose  never  lift  her 
head  at  all ;  but  I  will  be  your  friend  :  I  have  always  liked 
you ! ' 

'  Jessie,  curb  that  tongue  of  yours,  and  repress  your 
forwardness  ! '  said  Mrs.  Yorke. 

'  But,  mother,  you  are  so  frozen  ! '  expostulated  Jessie. 
'  Miss  Helstone  has  never  done  you  any  harm  :  why  can't 
you  be  kind  to  her  ?  You  sit  so  stiff,  and  look  so  cold,  and 
speak  so  dry — what  for  ?  That's  just  the  fashion  in  which 
you  treat  Miss  Shirley  Keeldar,  and  every  other  young  lady 
who  comes  to  our  house.  And  Rose,  there,  is  such  an  aut— 

aut I  have  forgotten  the  word,  but  it  means  a  machine 

in  the  shape  of  a  human  being.  However,  between  you,  you 
will  drive  every  soul  away  from  Briarmains — Martin  often 
says  so ! ' 

'  I  am  an  automaton  ?  Good  !  Let  me  alone  then,'  said 
Rose,  speaking  from  a  corner  where  she  was  sitting  on  the 
carpet  at  the  foot  of  a  bookcase,  with  a  volume  spread  open 
on  her  knee.  '  Miss  Helstone — how  do  you  do  ?  '  she  added, 
directing  a  brief  glance  to  the  person  addressed,  and  then 
again  casting  down  her  gray,  remarkable  eyes  on  the  book, 
and  returning  to  the  study  of  its  pages. 

Caroline  stole  a  quiet  gaze  towards  her,  dwelling  on  her 
young,  absorbed  countenance,  and  observing  a  certain 
unconscious  movement  of  the  mouth  as  she  read — a  move- 
ment full  of  character.  Caroline  had  tact,  and  she  had  fine 
instinct :  she  felt  that  Rose  Yorke  was  a  peculiar  child-  -one 
of  the  unique ;  she  knew  how  to  treat  her.  Approaching 
quietly,  she  knelt  on  the  carpet  at  her  side,  and  looked  over 


AN  EVENING  OUT  400 

her  little  shoulder  at  her  book.  It  was  a  romance  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe's — The  Italian. 

Caroline  read  on  with  her,  making  no  remark  :  presently 
Kose  showed  her  the  attention  of  asking,  ere  she  turned  a 
leaf — '  Are  you  ready  ? ' 

Caroline  only  nodded. 

'  Do  you  like  it  ? '  inquired  Rose,  erelong. 

'  Long  since,  when  I  read  it  as  a  child,  I  was  wonderfully 
taken  with  it.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'  It  seemed  to  open  with  such  promise — such  foreboding 
of  a  most  strange  tale  to  be  unfolded.' 

'  And  in  reading  it,  you  feel  as  if  you  were  far  away  from 
England — really  in  Italy — under  another  sort  of  sky — that 
blue  sky  of  the  south  which  travellers  describe.' 

'  You  are  sensible  of  that,  Eose  ?  ' 

'  It  makes  me  long  to  travel,  Miss  Helstone.' 

'  When  you  are  a  woman,  perhaps,  you  may  be  able  to 
gratify  your  wish.' 

'  I  mean  to  make  a  way  to  do  so,  if  one  is  not  made  for 
mo.  I  cannot  live  always  in  Briarfield.  The  whole  world 
is  not  very  large  compared  with  creation  :  I  must  see  the 
outside  of  our  own  round  planet  at  least.' 

'  How  much  of  its  outside  ?  ' 

'  First  this  hemisphere  where  we  live  ;  then  the  other. 
I  am  resolved  that  my  life  shall  bo  a  life  :  not  a  black  trance 
like  the  toad's,  buried  in  marble  ;  nor  a  long,  slow  death  like 
yours  in  Briarfield  Rectory.' 

'  Like  mine  !     What  can  you  mean,  child  ? ' 

'  Might  you  not  as  well  be  tediously  dying,  as  for  ever 
shut  up  in  that  glebe-house-— a  place  that,  when  I  pass  it, 
always  reminds  me  of  a  windowed  grave  ?  I  never  see  any 
movement  about  the  door  :  I  never  hear  a  sound  from  tho 
wall :  I  believe  smoke  never  issues  from  the  chimneys. 
What  do  you  do  there  ?  ' 

'  I  sew,  I  road,  I  learn  lessons.' 

'  Are  you  happy  ?  ' 


410  SHIRLEY 

'  Should  I  be  happier  wandering  alone  in  strange  countries 
as  you  wish  to  do  ?  ' 

'  Much  happier,  even  if  you  did  nothing  but  wander. 
Remember,  however,  that  I  shall  have  an  object  in  view  : 
but  if  you  only  went  on  and  on,  like  some  enchanted  lady  in 
a  fairy  tale,  you  might  be  happier  than  now.  In  a  day's 
wandering,  you  would  pass  many  a  hill,  wood,  and  water- 
course, each  perpetually  altering  in  aspect  as  the  sun  shone 
out  or  was  overcast ;  as  the  weather  was  wet  or  fair,  dark 
or  bright.  Nothing  changes  in  Briarfield  Rectory :  the 
plaster  of  the  parlour-ceilings,  the  paper  on  the  walls,  the 
curtains,  carpets,  chairs,  are  still  the  same.' 

'  Is  change  necessary  to  happiness  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

I  Is  it  synonymous  with  it  ?  ' 

I 1  don't  know ;  but  I  feel  monotony  and  death  to  be 
almost  the  same.' 

Here  Jessie  spoke. 

'  Isn't  she  mad  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  But,  Rose,'  pursued  Caroline,  '  I  fear  a  wanderer's  life, 
for  me  at  least,  would  end  like  that  tale  you  are  reading — in 
disappointment,  vanity,  and  vexation  of  spirit.' 

1  Does  TJie  Italian  so  end  ? ' 

'  1  thought  so  when  I  read  it." 

'  Better  to  try  all  things  and  find  all  empty,  than  to  try 
nothing  and  leave  your  life  a  blank.  To  do  this  is  to 
commit  the  sin  of  him  who  buried  his  talent  in  a  napkin — 
despicable  sluggard ! ' 

'Rose,'  observed  Mrs.  Yorke,  '  solid  satisfaction  is  only  to 
be  realized  by  doing  one's  duty.' 

'  Right,  mother !  And  if  my  Master  has  given  me  ten 
talents,  my  duty  is  to  trade  with  them,  and  make  them  ten 
talents  more.  Not  in  the  dust  of  household  drawers  shall 
the  coin  be  interred.  I  will  not  deposit  it  in  a  broken -spouted 
teapot,  and  shut  it  up  in  a  china-closet  among  tea-things. 
I  \vill  not  commit  it  to  your  work-table  to  be  smothered  in 
piles  of  woollen  hose.  I  will  not  prison  it  in  the  linen-press 


AN   EVENING  OUT  411 

to  find  shrouds  among  the  sheets  :  and  least  of  all,  mother  ' 
— (she  got  up  from  the  floor) — '  least  of  all  will  I  hide  it  in  a 
tureen  of  cold  potatoes,  to  be  ranged  with  bread,  butter, 
pastry,  and  ham  on  the  shelves  of  the  larder.' 

She  stopped — then  went  on  : — '  Mother,  the  Lord  who 
gave  each  of  us  our  talents  will  come  home  some  day,  and 
will  demand  from  all  an  account.  The  teapot,  the  old 
stocking-foot,  the  linen  rag,  the  willow-pattern  tureen,  will 
yield  up  their  barren  deposit  in  many  a  house  :  suffer  your 
daughters,  at  least,  to  put  their  money  to  the  exchangers,  that 
they  may  be  enabled  at  the  Master's  coming  to  pay  him  his 
own  with  usury.' 

'  Rose,  did  you  bring  your  sampler  with  you,  as  I  told 
you?' 

'  Yes,  mother.' 

'  Sit  down,  and  do  a  line  of  marking.' 

Rose  sat  down  promptly,  and  wrought  according  to  orders. 
After  a  busy  pause  of  ten  minutes,  her  mother  asked — '  Do 
you  think  yourself  oppressed  now  ?  A  victim  ? ' 

1  No,  mother.' 

1  Yet,  as  far  as  I  understand  your  tirade,  it  was  a  protest 
against  all  womanly  and  domestic  employment.' 

'  You  misunderstood  it,  mother.  I  should  be  sorry  not 
to  learn  to  sew  :  you  do  right  to  teach  me,  and  to  make  me 
work.' 

1  Even  to  the  mending  of  your  brother's  stockings  and  the 
making  of  sheets.' 

'  Yes.' 

1  Where  is  the  use  of  ranting  and  spouting  about  it 
then  ? ' 

'  Am  I  to  do  nothing  but  that  ?  I  will  do  that,  and  then  I 
will  do  more.  Now,  mother,  I  have  said  my  say.  I  am 
twelve  years  old  at  present,  and  not  till  I  am  sixteen  will  I 
speak  again  about  talents  :  for  four  years,  I  bind  myself  an 
industrious  apprentice  to  all  you  can  teach  me.' 

'  You  see  what  my  daughters  are,  Miss  Helstone,'  observed 
Mrs.  Yorke  :  '  how  precociously  wise  in  their  own  conceits  ! 


412  SHIRLEY 

"  I  would  rather  this — I  prefer  that ;  "  such  is  Jessie's  cuckoo 
song  :  while  Rose  utters  the  bolder  cry,  "  I  will,  and  I  will 
not ! " 

'  I  render  a  reason,  mother  :  besides,  if  my  cry  is  bold,  it 
is  only  heard  once  in  a  twelvemonth.  About  each  birthday, 
the  spirit  moves  me  to  deliver  one  oracle  respecting  my  own 
instruction  and  management :  I  utter  it  and  leave  it ;  it  is 
for  you,  mother,  to  listen  or  not.' 

'  I  would  advise  all  young  ladies,'  pursued  Mrs.  Yorke, '  to 
study  the  characters  of  such  children  as  they  chance  to  meet 
with,  before  they  marry,  and  have  any  of  their  own  ;  to 
consider  well  how  they  would  like  the  responsibility  of  guid- 
ing the  careless,  the  labour  of  persuading  the  stubborn,  the 
constant  burden  and  task  of  training  the  best.' 

'  But  with  love  it  need  not  be  so  very  difficult,'  inter- 
posed Caroline.  '  Mothers  love  their  children  most  dearly — 
almost  better  than  they  love  themselves.' 

'  Fine  talk  !  Very  sentimental !  There  is  the  rough, 
practical  part  of  life  yet  to  come  for  you,  young  Miss  I ' 

'  But,  Mrs.  Yorke,  if  I  take  a  little  baby  into  my  arms — 
any  poor  woman's  infant  for  instance, — I  feel  that  I  love  that 
helpless  thing  quite  peculiarly,  though  I  am  not  its  mother. 
I  could  do  almost  anything  for  it  willingly,  if  it  were  de- 
livered over  entirely  to  my  care — if  it  were  quite  dependent 
on  me.' 

'  You  feel !  Yes  !  yes  !  I  daresay,  now :  you  are  led  a 
great  deal  by  your  feelings,  and  you  think  yourself  a  very 
sensitive,  refined  personage,  no  doubt.  Are  you  aware  that, 
with  all  these  romantic  ideas,  you  have  managed  to  train 
your  features  into  an  habitually  lackadaisical  expression, 
better  suited  to  a  novel-heroine  than  to  a  woman  who  is  to 
make  her  way  in  the  real  world,  by  dint  of  common  sense  ? ' 

'  No  ;  I  am  not  at  all  aware  of  that,  Mrs.  Yorke.' 

'  Look  in  the  glass  just  behind  you.  Compare  the  face 
you  soe  there  with  that  of  any  early-rising,  hard-working 
milkmaid.' 

'  My  face  is  a  pale  one,  but  it  is  not  sentimental,  and  most 


AN  EVENING  OUT  413 

milkmaids,  however  red  and  robust  they  may  be,  are 
more  stupid  and  less  practically  fitted  to  make  their  way  in 
the  world  than  I  am.  I  think  more  and  more  correctly 
than  milkmaids  in  general  do;  consequently,  where  they 
would  often,  for  want  of  reflection,  act  weakly,  I,  by  dint  of 
reflection,  should  act  judiciously.' 

'  Oh,  no !  you  would  be  influenced  by  your  feelings.  You 
would  be  guided  by  impulse.' 

'  Of  course,  I  should  often  be  influenced  by  my  feelings  : 
they  were  given  me  to  that  end.  Whom  my  feelings  teach 
me  to  love,  I  must  and  shall  love ;  and  I  hope,  if  ever  I  have 
a  husband  and  children,  my  feelings  will  induce  me  to  love 
them.  I  hope,  in  that  case,  all  my  impulses  will  be  strong 
in  compelling  me  to  love.' 

Caroline  had  a  pleasure  in  saying  this  with  emphasis  : 
she  had  a  pleasure  in  daring  to  say  it  in  Mrs.  Yorke's  presence. 
She  did  not  care  what  unjust  sarcasm  might  be  hurled  at  her 
in  reply  :  she  flushed,  not  with  anger,  but  excitement,  when 
the  ungenial  matron  answered,  coolly, — '  Don't  waste  your 
dramatic  effects.  That  was  well  said, — it  was  quite  fine ;  but 
it  is  lost  on  two  women — an  old  wife  and  an  old  maid  :  there 
should  have  been  a  disengaged  gentleman  present.  Is  Mr. 
Eobert  nowhere  hid  behind  the  curtains,  do  you  think  Miss 
Moore?' 

Hortense,  who  during  the  chief  part  of  the  conversa- 
tion had  been  in  the  kitchen  superintending  the  preparations 
for  tea,  did  not  yet  quite  comprehend  the  drift  of  the  dis- 
course. She  answered,  with  a  puzzled  air,  that  Robert  was 
at  Whinbury.  Mrs.  Yorke  laughed  her  own  peculiar  short 
laugh. 

'Straightforward  Miss  Moore!'  said  she  patronizingly. 
1  It  is  like  you  to  understand  my  question  so  literally,  and 
answer  it  so  simply.  Your  mind  comprehends  nothing  of 
intrigue.  Strange  things  might  go  on  around  you  without 
your  being  the  wiser  :  you  are  not  of  the  class  the  world  calls 
sharp-witted.' 

These   equivocal   compliments  did  not  seem  to   please 


4U  SHlBLE? 

Hortense.    She  drew  herself  up,  puckered  her  black  eyebrows, 
but  still  looked  puzzled. 

'  I  have  ever  been  noted  for  sagacity  and  discernment  from 
childhood,'  she  returned  :  for,  indeed,  on  the  possession  of 
these  qualities,  she  peculiarly  piqued  herself. 

'  You  never  plotted  to  win  a  husband,  I'll  be  bound,' 
pursued  Mrs.  Yorke  ;  and  you  have  not  the  benefit  of  pre- 
vious experience  to  aid  you  in  discovering  when  others  plot.' 

Caroline  felt  this  kind  language  where  the  benevolent 
speaker  intended  she  should  feel  it — in  her  very  heart.  She 
could  not  even  parry  the  shafts :  she  was  defenceless  for  the 
present :  to  answer  would  have  been  to  avow  that  the  cap 
fitted.  Mrs.  Yorke,  looking  at  her  as  she  sat  with  troubled 
downcast  eyes,  and  cheek  burning  painfully,  and  figure 
expressing  in  its  bent  attitude  and  unconscious  tremor  all  the 
humiliation  and  chagrin  she  experienced,  felt  the  sufferer 
was  fair  game.  The  strange  woman  had  a  natural  antipathy 
to  a  shrinking,  sensitive  character — a  nervous  temperament : 
nor  was  a  pretty,  delicate,  and  youthful  face  a  passport  to  her 
affections.  It  was  seldom  she  met  with  all  these  obnoxious 
qualities  combined  in  one  individual :  still  more  seldom  she 
found  that  individual  at  her  mercy,  under  circumstances  in 
which  she  could  crush  her  well.  She  happened,  this  after- 
noon, to  be  specially  bilious  and  morose  :  as  much  disposed 
to  gore  as  any  vicious  "  mother  of  the  herd  :  "  lowering  her 
large  hrad,  she  made  a  new  charge. 

'Your  cousin  Hortense  is  an  excellent  sister,  Miss  Hol- 
s'one:  such  ladies  as  come  to  try  their  life's  luck  here,  at 
Hollow's  cottage,  may,  by  a  very  little  clever  female  artifice, 
cajole  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  have  the  game  all  in 
their  own  hands.  You  are  fond  of  your  cousin's  society,  I 
dare  say,  Miss  ?  ' 

1  Of  which  cousin's  ?  ' 

'Oh,  of  t.he  lady's,  of  course.' 

1  Hortense  is,  and  always  has  been,  most  kind  to  me.' 

'  Every  sister,  with  an  eligible  single  brother,  is  considered 
most  kind  by  her  spinster  friends.' 


AN  EVENING  OUT  415 

'  Mrs.  Yorke,'  said  Caroline,  lifting  her  eyes  slowly,  their 
blue  orbs  at  the  same  time  clearing  from  trouble,  and  shining 
steady  and  full,  while  the  glow  of  shame  left  her  cheek,  and 
its  hue  turned  pale  and  settled  :  Mrs.  Yorke,  may  I  ask  what 
you  mean  ? ' 

'  To  give  you  a  lesson  on  the  cultivation  of  rectitude  :  to 
disgust  you  with  craft  and  false  sentiment.' 
1  Do  I  need  this  lesson  ? ' 

1  Most  young  ladies  of  the  present  day  need  it.  You  are 
quite  a  modern  young  lady — morbid,  delicate,  professing  to 
like  retirement ;  which  implies,  I  suppose,  that  you  find  little 
worthy  of  your  sympathies  in  the  ordinary  world.  The 
ordinary  world — every-day,  honest  folks — are  better  than  you 
think  them  :  much  better  than  any  bookish,  romancing  chit 
of  a  girl  can  be,  who  hardly  ever  puts  her  nose  over  her  uncle, 
the  parson's,  garden-wall.' 

'  Consequently,  of  whom  you  know  nothing.  Excuse 
me, — indeed,  it  does  not  matter  whether  you  excuse  me  or 
not — you  have  attacked  me  without  provocation :  I  shall 
defend  myself  witl.out  apology.  Of  my  relations  with  my 
two  cousins,  you  are  ignorant :  in  a  fit  of  ill-humour  you 
have  attempted  to  poison  them  by  gratuitous  insinuations, 
which  are  far  more  crafty  and  false  than  anything  with 
which  you  can  justly  charge  me.  That  I  happen  to  be  pale, 
and  sometimes  to  look  diffident,  is  no  business  of  yours. 
That  I  am  fond  of  books,  and  indisposed  for  common  gossip, 
is  still  less  your  business.  That  I  am  a  "  romancing  chit  of 
a  girl,"  is  a  mere  conjecture  on  your  part :  I  never  romanced 
to  you,  nor  to  anybody  you  know.  That  I  am  the  parson's 
niece  is  not  a  crime,  though  you  may  be  narrow-minded 
enough  to  think  it  so.  You  dislike  me  :  you  have  no  just 
reason  for  disliking  me ;  therefore  keep  the  expression  of 
your  aversion  to  yourself.  If  at  any  time,  in  future,  you 
evince  it  annoyingly,  I  shall  answer  even  less  scrupulously 
than  I  have  done  now.' 

She  ceased,  and  sat  in  white  and  still  excitement.     She 
had  spoken  in  the  clearest  of  tones,  neither  fast  nor  loud ; 


416  SHIELEY 

but  her  silver  accents  thrilled  the  ear.  The  speed  of  the 
current  in  her  veins  was  just  then  as  swift  as  it  was 
viewless. 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  not  irritated  at  the  reproof,  worded  with 
a  severity  so  simple,  dictated  by  a  pride  so  quiet.  Turning 
coolly  to  Miss  Moore,  she  said,  nodding  her  cap  approvingly 
— '  She  has  spirit  in  her,  after  all.  Always  speak  as 
honestly  as  you  have  done  just  now,'  she  continued,  '  and 
you'll  do.' 

'  I  repel  a  recommendation  so  offensive,'  was  the  answer, 
delivered  in  the  same  pure  key,  with  the  same  clear  look, 
'  I  reject  counsel  poisoned  by  insinuation.  It  is  my  right  to 
speak  as  I  think  proper :  nothing  binds  me  to  converse  as 
you  dictate.  So  far  from  always  speaking  as  I  have  done 
just  now,  I  shall  never  address  any  one  in  a  tone  so  stern, 
or  in  language  so  harsh,  unless  in  answer  to  unprovoked 
insult.' 

'  Mother,  you  have  found  your  match,'  pronounced  little 
Jessie,  whom  the  scene  appeared  greatly  to  edify. 

Eose  had  heard  the  whole  with  an  unmoved  face.  She 
now  said, — '  No  :  Miss  Helstone  is  not  my  mother's  match 
— for  she  allows  herself  to  be  vexed  :  my  mother  would 
wear  her  out  in  a  few  weeks.  Shirley  Keeldar  manages 
better.  Mother,  you  have  never  hurt  Miss  Keeldar's 
feelings  yet.  She  wears  armour  under  her  silk  dress  that 
you  cannot  penetrate.' 

Mrs.  Yorke  often  complained  that  her  children  were 
mutinous.  It  was  strange,  that  with  all  her  strictness,  with 
all  her  '  strong-mindedness,'  she  could  gain  no  command 
over  them  :  a  look  from  their  father  had  more  influence  with 
them  than  a  lecture  from  her. 

Miss  Moore — to  whom  the  position  of  witness  to  an 
altercation  in  which  she  took  no  part  was  highly  displeas- 
ing, as  being  an  unimportant  secondary  post — now,  rallying 
her  dignity,  prepared  to  utter  a  discourse  which  was  to 
prove  both  parties  in  the  wrong,  and  to  make  it  clear  to 
each  disputant  that  she  had  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  herself, 


AN  EVENING  OUT  417 

and  ought  to  submit  humbly  to  the  superior  sense  of  the 
individual  then  addressing  her.  Fortunately  for  her 
audience,  she  had  not  harangued  above  ten  minutes,  when 
Sarah's  entrance  with  the  tea-tray  called  her  attention,  first, 
to  the  fact  of  that  damsel  having  a  gilt  comb  in  her  hair, 
and  a  red  necklace  round  her  throat,  and  secondly,  and 
subsequently  to  a  pointed  remonstrance,  to  the  duty  of 
making  tea.  After  the  meal,  Rose  restored  her  to  good 
humour  by  bringing  her  guitar  and  asking  for  a  song,  and 
afterwards  engaging  her  in  an  intelligent  and  sharp  cross- 
examination  about  guitar-playing  and  music  in  general. 

Jessie,  meantime,  directed  her  assiduities  to  Caroline. 
Sitting  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  she  talked  to  her,  first 
about  religion,  and  then  about  politics.  Jessie  was  accus- 
tomed at  home  to  drink  in  a  great  deal  of  what  her  father 
said  on  these  subjects,  and  afterwards  in  company  to  retail, 
with  more  wit  and  fluency  than  consistency  or  discretion, 
his  opinions,  antipathies,  and  preferences.  She  rated 
Caroline  soundly  for  being  a  member  of  the  Established 
Church,  and  for  having  an  uncle  a  clergyman.  She  informed 
her  that  she  li ved  on  the  country,  and  ought  to  work  for  her 
living  honestly,  instead  of  passing  a  useless  life,  and  eating 
the  bread  of  idleness  in  the  shape  of  tithes.  Thence  Jessie 
passed  to  a  review  of  the  Ministry  at  that  time  in  oilice,  and  a 
consideration  of  its  deserts.  She  made  familiar  mention  of 
the  names  of  Lord  Castlereagh  and  Mr.  Perceval.  Each  of 
these  personages  she  adorned  with  a  character  that  might 
have  separately  suited  Moloch  and  Belial.  She  denounced 
the  war  as  wholesale  murder,  and  Lord  Wellington  as  a 
'  hired  butcher.' 

Her  auditress  listened  with  exceeding  edification.  Jessie 
had  something  of  the  genius  of  humour  in  her  nature  :  it 
was  inexpressibly  comic  to  hear  her  repeating  her  sire's 
denunciations  in  her  nervous  northern  Doric  ;  as  hearty  a 
little  Jacobin  as  ever  pent  a  free  mutinous  spirit  in  a  muslin 
frock  and  sash.  Not  malignant  by  nature,  her  language 
was  not  so  bitter  as  it  was  racy,  and  the  expressive  little 


418  SHIRLEY 

face  gave  a  piquancy  to  every  phrase  which  held  a  beholder's 
interest  captive. 

Caroline  chid  her  when  she  abused  Lord  Wellington ; 
but  she  listened  delighted  to  a  subsequent  tirade  against  the 
Prince  Eegent.  Jessie  quickly  read  in  the  sparkle  of  her 
hearer's  eye,  and  the  laughter  hovering  round  her  lips,  that 
at  last  she  had  hit  on  a  topic  that  pleased.  Many  a  time 
had  she  heard  the  fat  '  Adonis  of  fifty '  discussed  at  her 
father's  breakfast-table,  and  she  now  gave  Mr.  Yorke's 
comments  on  the  theme — genuine  as  uttered  by  his  York- 
shire lips. 

But,  Jessie,  I  will  write  about  you  no  more.  This  is  an 
autumn  evening,  wet  and  wild.  There  is  only  one  cloud  in 
the  sky;  but  it  curtains  it  from  pole  to  pole.  The  wind 
cannot  rest :  it  hurries  sobbing  over  hills  of  sullen  outline, 
colourless  with  twilight  and  mist.  Eain  has  boat  all  day  on 
that  church  tower  :  it  rises  dark  from  the  stony  enclosure  of 
its  graveyard  :  the  nettles,  the  long  grass,  and  the  tombs  all 
drip  with  wet.  This  evening  reminds  me  too  forcibly  of 
another  evening  some  years  ago :  a  howling,  rainy  autumn 
evening  too — when  certain  who  had  that  day  performed  a 
pilgrimage  to  a  grave  new-made  in  a  heretic  cemetery,  sat 
near  a  wood-fire  on  the  hearth  of  a  foreign  dwelling.  They 
were  merry  and  social,  but  they  each  knew  that  a  gap,  never 
to  be  filled,  had  been  made  in  their  circle.  They  knew  they 
had  lost  something  whose  absence  could  never  be  quite 
atoned  for  so  long  as  they  lived :  and  they  knew  that  heavy 
falling  rain  was  soaking  into  the  wet  earth  which  covered 
their  lost  darling ;  and  that  the  sad,  sighing  gale  was 
mourning  above  her  buried  head.  The  fire  warmed  them  ; 
Life  and  Friendship  yet  blessed  them ;  but  Jessie  lay  cold, 
coffined,  solitary — only  the  sod  screening  her  from  the 
storm. 


Mrs.  Yorke  folded  up  her  knitting,  cut  short  the  music- 
lesson  and  the  lecture  on  politics,  and  concluded  her  visit  to 


AN  EVENING  OUT  419 

the  cottage,  at  an  hour  early  enough  to  ensure  her  return  to 
Briarmains  before  the  blush  of  sunset  should  quite  have 
faded  in  heaven,  or  the  path  up  the  fields  have  become 
thoroughly  moist  with  evening  dew. 

The  lady  and  her  daughters  being  gone,  Caroline  felt 
that  she  also  ought  to  resume  her  scarf,  kiss  her  cousin's 
cheek,  and  trip  away  homeward.  If  she  lingered  much 
later,  dusk  would  draw  on,  and  Fanny  would  be  put  to  the 
trouble  of  coming  to  fetch  her  :  it  was  both  baking  and 
ironing-day  at  the  Eectory,  she  remembered — Fanny  would 
be  busy.  Still,  she  could  not  quit  her  seat  at  the  little  parlour- 
window.  From  no  point  of  view  could  the  West  look  so 
lovely  as  from  that  lattice  with  the  garland  of  jessamine 
round  it,  whose  white  stars  and  green  leaves  seemed  now 
but  gray  pencil  outlines — graceful  in  form,  but  colourless  in 
tint — against  the  gold  incarnadined  of  a  summer  evening — 
against  the  fire-tinged  blue  of  an  August  sky,  at  eight 
o'clock  P.M. 

Caroline  looked  at  the  wicket-gate,  beside  which  holly- 
hocks spired  up  tall ;  she  looked  at  the  close  hedge  of  privet 
and  laurel  fencing  in  the  garden  ;  her  eyes  longed  to  see 
something  more  than  the  shrubs,  before  they  turned  from 
that  limited  prospect :  they  longed  to  see  a  human  figure, 
of  a  certain  mould  and  height,  pass  the  hedge  and  enter  the 
gate.  A  human  figure  she  at  last  saw— nay,  two  :  Frederick 
Murgatroyd  went  by,  carrying  a  pail  of  water ;  Joe  Scott 
followed,  dangling  on  his  forefinger  the  keys  of  the  mill. 
They  were  going  to  lock  up  mill  and  stables  for  the  night, 
and  then  betake  themselves  home. 

'  So  must  I,'  thought  Caroline,  as  she  half  rose  and 
sighed. 

'  This  is  all  folly-— heart-breaking  folly,'  she  added.  '  In 
the  first  place,  though  I  should  stay  till  dark,  there  will  be 
no  arrival ;  because  I  feel  in  my  heart,  Fate  has  written  it 
down  in  to-day's  page  of  her  eternal  book,  that  I  am  not  to 
have  the  pleasure  I  long  for.  In  the  second  place,  if  he 
stepped  in  this  moment,  my  presence  here  would  be  a 

15 


420  SHIELEY 

chagrin  to  him,  and  the  consciousness  that  it  must  be  so 
would  turn  half  my  blood  to  ice.  His  hand  would,  perhaps, 
be  loose  and  chill,  if  I  put  mine  into  it :  his  eye  would  be 
clouded  if  I  sought  its  beam.  I  should  look  up  for  that 
kindling  something  I  have  seen  in  past  days,  when  my  face, 
or  my  language,  or  my  disposition  had  at  some  happy 
moment  pleased  him— I  should  discover  only  darkness.  I 
had  better  go  home.' 

She  took  her  bonnet  from  the  table  where  it  lay,  and 
was  just  fastening  the  ribbon,  when  Hortense,  directing  her 
attention  to  a  splendid  bouquet  of  flowers  in  a  glass  on  the 
same  table,  mentioned  that  Miss  Keeldar  had  sent  them 
that  morning  from  Fieldhead  ;  and  went  on  to  comment  on 
the  guests  that  lady  was  at  present  entertaining,  on  the 
bustling  life  she  had  lately  been  leading ;  adding  divers 
conjectures  that  she  did  not  very  well  like  it,  and  much 
wonderment  that  a  person  who  was  so  fond  of  her  own  way 
as  the  heiress,  did  not  find  some  means  of  sooner  getting  rid 
of  this  cortege  of  relatives. 

'  But  they  say  she  actually  will  not  let  Mr.  Sympson 
and  his  family  go,'  she  added :  '  they  wanted  much  to 
return  to  the  south  last  week,  to  be  ready  for  the  reception 
of  the  only  son,  who  is  expected  home  from  a  tour.  She 
insists  that  her  cousin  Henry  shall  come  and  join  his  friends 
here  in  Yorkshire.  I  daresay  she  partly  does  it  to  oblige 
Bobert  and  myself." 

'  How  to  oblige  Eobert  and  you  ? '  inquired  Caroline. 

'  Why,  my  child,  you  are  dull.  Don't  you  know— you 
must  often  have  heard ' 

'  Please,  ma'am,'  said  Sarah,  opening  the  door,  '  the 
preserves  that  you  told  me  to  boil  in  treacle — the  congfiters, 
as  you  call  them — is  all  burnt  to  the  pan.' 

'  Les  confitures  1  Elles  sont  brulees  ?  Ah,  quelle 
negligence  coupable  !  Coquine  de  cuisiniere—  fille  insup- 
portable.' 

And  Mademoiselle,  hastily  taking  from  a  drawer  a  large 
linen  apron,  and  tying  it  over  her  black  apron,  rushed 


AN   EVENING  OUT  421 

'  e'perdue  '  into  the  kitchen,  whence— to  speak  truth — 
exhaled  an  odour  of  calcined  sweets  rather  strong  than 
savoury. 

The  mistress  and  maid  had  been  in  full  feud  the  whole 
day,  on  the  subject  of  preserving  certain  black  cherries, 
hard  as  marbles,  sour  as  sloes.  Sarah  held  that  sugar  was 
the  only  orthodox  condiment  to  be  used  hi  that  process ; 
Mademoiselle  maintained —and  proved  it  by  the  practice 
and  experience  of  her  mother,  grandmother,  and  great- 
grandmother — that  treacle,  '  melasse,'  was  infinitely  prefer- 
able. She  had  committed  an  imprudence  in  leaving  Sarah 
in  charge  of  the  preserving-pan,  for  her  want  of  sympathy 
in  the  nature  of  its  contents  had  induced  a  degree  of  care- 
lessness in  watching  their  confection,  whereof  the  result 
was — dark  and  cindery  ruin.  Hubbub  followed  :  high 
upbraiding,  and  sobs  rather  loud  than  deep  or  real. 

Caroline,  once  more  turning  to  the  little  mirror,  was 
shading  her  ringlets  from  her  cheek  to  smooth  them  under 
her  cottage  bonnet,  certain  that  it  would  not  only  be  useless 
but  unpleasant  to  stay  longer ;  when,  on  the  sudden  open- 
ing of  the  back-door,  there  fell  an  abrupt  calm  in  the 
kitchen  :  the  tongues  were  checked,  pulled  up  as  with  bit 
and  bridle.  '  Was  it — \vas  it— Robert  ? '  He  often  —almost 
always — entered  by  the  kitchen-way  on  his  return  from 
market.  No  :  it  was  only  Joe  Scott,  who,  having  hemmed 
significantly  thrice — every  hem  being  meant  as  a  lofty 
rebuke  to  the  squabbling  womankind— said,  '  Now,  I  thowt 
I  heerd  a  crack  ?  ' 

None  answered. 

'  And,'  he  continued,  pragmatically,  '  as  t'  maister's 
corned,  and  as  he'll  enter  through  this  hoyle,  I  considered  it 
desirable  to  step  in  and  let  ye  know.  A  household  o' 
women  is  nivver  fit  to  be  corned  on  wi'out  warning.  Here 
he  is :  walk  forrard,  sir.  They  war  playing  up  queerly,  but 
I  think  I've  quieted  'em.' 

Another  person— it  was  now  audible  -entered-  Joe 
Scott  proceeded  with  his  rebukes. 


422  SHIRLEY 

'  What  d'ye  mean  by  being  all  i'  darkness  ?  Sarah, 
thou  quean,  canst  t'  not  light  a  candle  ?  It  war  sundown 
an  hour  syne.  He'll  brak'  his  shins  agean  some  o'  yer 
pots,  and  tables,  and  stuff.  Tak'  tent  o'  this  baking-bowl, 
sir ;  they've  set  it  i'  yer  way,  fair  as  if  they  did  it  i' 
malice.' 

To  Joe's  observations  succeeded  a  confused  sort  of 
pause,  which  Caroline,  though  she  was  listening  with  both 
her  ears,  could  not  understand.  It  was  very  brief :  a  cry 
broke  it — a  sound  of  surprise,  followed  by  the  sound  of  a 
kiss  :  ejaculations,  but  half  articulate,  succeeded. 

'  Mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu  !  Est-ce  que  je  m'y  attendais? ' 
were  the  words  chiefly  to  be  distinguished. 

'  Et  tu  te  portes  toujours  bieu,  bonne  soeur  ? '  inquired 
another  voice — Robert's,  certainly. 

Caroline  was  puzzled.  Obeying  an  impulse,  the  wisdom 
of  which  she  had  not  time  to  question,  she  escaped  from  the 
little  parlour,  by  way  of  leaving  the  coast  clear,  and  running 
upstairs  took  up  a  position  at  the  head  of  the  banisters, 
whence  she  could  make  further  observations  ere  presenting 
herself.  It  was  considerably  past  sunset  now  :  dusk  filled 
the  passage,  yet  not  such  deep  dusk  but  that  she  could 
presently  see  Robert  and  Hortense  traverse  it. 

'  Caroline  !  Caroline  !  '  called  Hortense,  a  moment  after- 
wards, '  venez  voir  mon  frere  ! ' 

'  Strange  ! '  commented  Miss  Helstone,  '  passing 
strange  !  What  does  this  unwonted  excitement  about  such 
an  everyday  occurrence  as  a  return  from  market  portend  ? 
She  has  not  lost  her  senses,  has  she  ?  Surely  the  burnt 
treacle  has  not  crazed  her  ? ' 

She  descended  in  a  subdued  flutter :  yet  more  was  she 
fluttered  when  Hortense  seized  her  hand  at  the  parlour- 
door,  and  leading  her  to  Robert,  who  stood  in  bodily 
presence,  tall  and  dark  against  the  one  window,  presented 
her  with  a  mixture  of  agitation  and  formality,  as  though  they 
had  been  utter  strangers,  and  this  was  their  first  mutual 
introduction. 


AN  EVENING  OUT  423 

Increasing  puzzle !  He  bowed  rather  awkwardly,  and 
turning  from  her  with  a  stranger's  embarrassment,  he  met 
the  doubtful  light  from  a  window  :  it  fell  on  his  face,  and 
the  enigma  of  the  dream  (a  dream  it  seemed)  was  at  its 
height :  she  saw  a  visage  like  and  unlike — Bobert,  and  no 
Robert. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ? '  said  Caroline.  '  Is  my  sight 
wrong  ?  Is  it  my  cousin  ? ' 

'  Certainly,  it  is  your  cousin,'  asserted  Hortense. 
Then  who  was  this  now  coming  through  the  passage, — now 
entering  the  room  ?      Caroline,  looking  round,  met  a  new 
Robert, — the  real  Robert,  as  she  felt  at  once. 

'  Well,'  said  he,  smiling  at  her  questioning,  astonished 
face,  which  is  which  ? ' 

'  Ah  !  this  is  you  ! '  was  the  answer. 
He  laughed.     '  I  believe  it  is  me ;  and  do  you  know  who 
he  is  ?    You  never  saw  him  before  ;  but  you  have  heard  of 
him.' 

She  had  gathered  her  senses  now. 

'  It  can  be  only  one  person  :  your  brother,  since  it  is  so 
like  you  :  my  other  cousin,  Louis.' 

'  Clever  little  CEdipus  ! — you  would  have  baffled  the 
Sphinx ! — but  now,  see  us  together.  Change  places. 
Change  again,  to  confuse  her,  Louis. — Which  is  the  old  love 
now,  Lina  ? ' 

'  As  if  it  were  possible  to  make  a  mistake  when  you 
speak !  You  should  have  told  Hortense  to  ask.  But  you 
are  not  so  much  alike  :  it  is  only  your  height,  your  figure, 
and  complexion  that  are  so  similar.' 

'  And  I  am  Robert,  am  I  not  ? '  asked  the  new  comer, 
making  a  first  effort  to  overcome  what  seemed  his  natural 
shyness. 

Caroline  shook  her  head  gently.  A  soft,  expressive 
ray  from  her  eye  beamed  on  the  real  Robert :  it  said 
much. 

She  was  not  permitted  to  quit  her  cousins  soon  :  Robert 
himself  was  peremptory  in  obliging  her  to  remain.  Glad, 


424  SHIRLEY 

simple,  and  affable  in  her  demeanour  (glad  for  this  night,  at 
least),  in  light,  bright  spirits  for  the  time,  she  was  too 
pleasant  an  addition  to  the  cottage  circle  to  be  willingly 
parted  with  by  any  of  them.  Louis  seemed  naturally  rather 
a  grave,  still,  retiring  man,  but  the  Caroline  of  this  evening, 
which  was  not  (as  you  know,  reader)  the  Caroline  of  every 
day,  thawed  his  reserve,  and  cheered  his  gravity  soon.  He 
sat  near  her,  and  talked  to  her.  She  already  knew  his 
vocation  was  that  of  tuition ;  she  learned  now  he  had  for 
some  years  been  the  tutor  of  Mr.  Sympson's  son  ;  that  he 
had  been  travelling  with  him,  and  had  accompanied  him  to 
the  north.  She  inquired  if  he  liked  his  post,  but  got  a  look 
in  reply  which  did  not  invite  or  license  further  question. 
The  look  woke  Caroline's  ready  sympathy :  she  thought  it  a 
very  sad  expression  to  pass  over  so  sensible  a  face  as 
Louis's  ;  for  he  had  a  sensible  face, — though  not  handsome, 
she  considered,  when  seen  near  Robert's.  She  turned  to 
make  the  comparison.  Robert  was  leaning  against  the  wall, 
a  little  behind  her,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  of 
engravings,  and  probably  listening,  at  the  same  time,  to  the 
dialogue  between  her  and  Louis. 

'How  could  I  think  them  alike?'  she  asked  herself: 
'  I  see  now  it  is  Hortense,  Louis  resembles,  not  Robert.' 

And  this  was  in  part  true  :  he  had  the  shorter  nose  and 
longer  upper-lip  of  his  sister,  rather  than  the  tine  traits  of 
his  brother :  he  had  her  mould  of  mouth  and  chin — all  less 
decisive,  accurate,  and  clear  than  those  of  the  young  mill- 
owner.  His  air,  though  deliberate  and  reflective,  could 
scarcely  be  called  prompt  and  acute.  You  felt,  in  sitting 
near  and  looking  up  at  him,  that  a  slower  and  probably  a 
more  benignant  nature  than  that  of  the  elder  Moore  shed 
calm  on  your  impressions. 

Robert  -  perhaps  aware  that  Caroline's  glance  had 
wandered  towards  and  dwelt  upon  him,  though  he  had 
neither  met  nor  answered  it—put  down  the  book  of  engrav- 
ings, and  approaching,  took  a  seat  at  her  side.  She  resumed 
her  conversation  with  Louis,  but,  while  she  talked  to  him, 


AN  EVENING  OUT  425 

her  thoughts  were  elsewhere  :  her  heart  beat  on  the  side 
from  which  her  face  was  half-averted.  She  acknowledged 
a  steady,  manly,  kindly  air  in  Louis ;  but  she  bent  before 
the  secret  power  of  Robert.  To  be  so  near  him— though  he 
was  silent — though  he  did  not  touch  so  much  as  her  scarf- 
fringe,  or  the  white  hem  of  her  dress — affected  her  like  a 
spell.  Had  she  been  obliged  to  speak  to  him  only,  it  would 
have  quelled — but,  at  liberty  to  address  another,  it  excited 
her.  Her  discourse  flowed  freely :  it  was  gay,  playful, 
eloquent.  The  indulgent  look  and  placid  manner  of  her 
auditor  encouraged  her  to  ease  ;  the  sober  pleasure  expressed 
by  his  smile  drew  out  all  that  was  brilliant  in  her  nature. 
She  felt  that  this  evening  she  appeared  to  advantage,  and, 
as  Robert  was  a  spectator,  the  consciousness  contented  her : 
had  he  been  called  away,  collapse  would  at  once  have 
succeeded  stimulus. 

But  her  enjoyment  was  not  long  to  shine  full-orbed :  a 
cloud  soon  crossed  it. 

Hortense,  who  for  some  time  had  been  on  the  move 
ordering  supper,  and  was  now  clearing  the  little  table  of 
some  books,  &c.,  to  make  room  for  the  tray,  called  Robert'^ 
attention  to  the  glass  of  flowers,  the  carmine,  and  snow, 
and  gold  of  whose  petals  looked  radiant  indeed  by  candle- 
light. 

'  They  came  from  Fieldhead,'  she  said,  '  intended  as  a 
gift  to  you,  no  doubt :  we  know  who  is  the  favourite  there — 
not  I,  I'm  sure.' 

It  was  a  wonder  to  hear  Hortense  jest ;  a  sign  that  her 
spirits  were  at  high-water  mark  indeed. 

'  We  are  to  understand,  then,  that  Robert  is  the 
favourite  ?  '  observed  Louis. 

'Mon  cher,'  replied  Hortense,  '  Robert  —  c'est  tout  ce 
qu'il  y  a  de  plus  precieux  au  monde  :  &  cote  de  lui,  le  reste 
du  genre  humain  n'est  que  du  rebut.  N'ai-je  pas  raison, 
mon  enfant  ?  '  she  added,  appealing  to  Caroline. 

Caroline  was  obliged  to  reply,  '  Yes  '—and  her  beacon 
was  quenched  :  her  star  withdrew  as  she  spoke. 


426  SHIRLEY 

1  Et  toi,  Robert  ? '  inquired  Louis. 

1  When  you  shall  have  an  opportunity,  ask  herself,'  was 
the  quiet  answer.  Whether  he  reddened  or  paled  Caroline 
did  not  examine :  she  discovered  it  was  late,  and  she  must 
go  home.  Home  she  would  go:  not  even  Robert  could 
detain  her  now. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH 

THE  future  sometimes  seems  to  sob  a  low  warning  of  the 
events  it  is  bringing  us,  like  some  gathering  though  yet 
remote  storm,  which,  in  tones  of  the  wind,  in  flushings  of 
the  firmament,  in  clouds  strangely  torn,  announces  a  blast 
strong  to  strew  the  sea  with  wrecks ;  or  commissioned  to 
bring  in  fog  the  yellow  taint  of  pestilence,  covering  white 
Western  isles  with  the  poisoned  exhalations  of  the  East, 
dimming  the  lattices  of  English  homes  with  the  breath  of 
Indian  plague.  At  other  times  this  Future  bursts  suddenly, 
as  if  a  rock  had  rent,  and  in  it  a  grave  had  opened,  whence 
issues  the  body  of  one  that  slept.  Ere  you  are  aware  you 
stand  face  to  face  with  a  shrouded  and  unthought-of  Calamity 
— a  new  Lazarus. 

Caroline  Helstone  went  home  from  Hollow's  cottage  in 
good  health,  as  she  imagined.  On  waking  the  next  morning 
she  felt  oppressed  with  unwonted  languor  :  at  breakfast,  at 
each  meal  of  the  following  day,  she  missed  all  sense  of 
appetite  :  palatable  food  was  as  ashes  and  sawdust  to  her. 

'  Am  I  ill  ? '  she  asked,  and  looked  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  their  pupils  dilated,  her 
cheeks  seemed  rosier  and  fuller  than  usual.  '  I  look  well ! 
Why  can  I  not  eat  ?  ' 

She  felt  a  pulse  beat  fast  in  her  temples :  she  felt,  too, 
her  brain  in  strange  activity :  her  spirits  were  raised  ; 
hundreds  of  busy  and  broken,  but  brilliant  thoughts  engaged 
her  mind :  a  glow  rested  on  them,  such  as  tinged  her 
complexion. 


428  SHIRLEY 

Now  followed  a  hot,  parched,  thirsty,  restless  night 
Towards  morning  one  terrible  dream  seized  her  like  a  tiger- 
When  she  woke,  she  felt  and  knew  she  was  ill. 

How  she  had  caught  the  fever  (fever  it  was),  she  could 
not  tell.  Probably  in  her  late  walk  home,  some  sweet, 
poisoned  breeze,  redolent  of  honey-dew  and  miasma,  had 
passed  into  her  lungs  and  veins,  and  finding  there  already  a 
fever  of  mental  excitement,  and  a  languor  of  long  conflict 
and  habitual  sadness,  had  fanned  the  spark  of  flame,  and 
left  a  well-lit  fire  behind  it. 

It  seemed,  however,  but  a  gentle  fire  :  after  two  hot  days 
and  worried  nights,  there  was  no  violence  in  the  symptoms, 
and  neither  her  uncle,  nor  Fanny,  nor  the  doctor,  nor  Miss 
Keeldar,  when  she  called,  had  any  fear  for  her  :  a  few  days 
would  restore  her,  every  one  believed. 

The  few  days  passed,  and — though  it  was  still  thought 
it  could  not  long  delay — the  revival  had  not  begun.  Mrs. 
Pryor,  who  had  visited  her  daily — being  present  in  her 
chamber  one  morning  when  she  had  been  ill  a  fortnight — 
watched  her  very  narrowly  for  some  minutes  :  she  took  her 
hand,  and  placed  her  finger  on  her  wrist ;  then,  quietly 
leaving  the  chamber,  she  went  to  Mr.  Helstone's  study. 
With  him  she  remained  closeted  a  long  time — half  the 
morning.  On  returning  to  her  sick  young  friend,  she  laid 
aside  shawl  and  bonnet :  she  stood  a  while  at  the  bedside, 
one  hand  placed  in  the  other,  gently  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro,  in  an  attitude  and  with  a  movement  habitual  to  her. 
At  last  she  said — '  I  have  sent  Fanny  to  Fieldhead  to  fetch 
a  few  things  for  me,  such  as  I  shall  want  during  a  short 
stay  here :  it  is  my  wish  to  remain  with  you  till  you  are 
better.  Your  uncle  kindly  permits  my  attendance  :  will  it 
to  youi'self  be  acceptable,  Caroline  ?  ' 

'  I  am  sorry  you  should  take  such  needless  trouble.  I 
do  not  feel  very  ill,  but  I  cannot  refuse  resolutely :  it  will  be 
such  comfort  to  know  you  are  in  the  house,  to  see  you 
sometimes  in  the  room  ;  but  don't  confine  yourself  on  my 
account,  dear  Mrs.  Pryor.  Fanny  nurses  me  very  well.' 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  429 

Mrs.  Pryor — bending  over  the  pale  little  sufferer — was 
now  smoothing  the  hair  under  her  cap,  and  gently  raising 
her  pillow.  As  she  performed  these  offices,  Caroline, 
smiling,  lifted  her  face  to  kiss  her. 

'  Are  you  free  from  pain  ?  Are  you  tolerably  at  ease  ?  ' 
was  inquired  in  a  low,  earnest  voice,  as  the  self -elected  nurse 
yielded  to  the  caress. 

'  I  think  I  am  almost  happy.' 

'  You  wish  to  drink  ?     Your  lips  are  parched.' 

She  held  a  glass  filled  with  some  cooling  beverage  to  her 
mouth. 

'  Have  you  eaten  anything  to-day,  Caroline  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  eat.' 

'  But  soon  your  appetite  will  return  :  it  must  return  :  that 
is,  I  pray  God  it  may  ! ' 

In  laying  her  again  on  the  couch,  she  encircled  her  in  her 
arms ;  and  while  so  doing,  by  a  movement  which  seemed 
scarcely  voluntary,  she  drew  her  to  her  heart,  and  held  her 
close  gathered  an  instant. 

'  I  shall  hardly  wish  to  get  well,  that  I  may  keep  you 
always,'  said  Caroline. 

Mrs.  Pryor  did  not  smile  at  this  speech  :  over  her  features 
ran  a  tremor,  which  for  some  minutes  she  was  absorbed  in 
repressing. 

'  You  are  more  used  to  Fanny  than  to  me,'  she  remarked, 
erelong.  '  I  should  think  my  attendance  must  seem  strange, 
officious  ? ' 

'  No  :  quite  natural,  and  very  soothing.  You  must  have 
been  accustomed  to  wait  on  sick  people,  ma'am.  You  move 
about  the  room  so  softly,  and  you  speak  so  quietly,  and  touch 
me  so  gently.' 

'  I  am  dexterous  in  nothing,  my  dear.  You  will  often  find 
me  awkward,  but  never  negligent.' 

Negligent,  indeed,  she  was  not.  From  that  hour  Fanny 
and  Eliza  became  ciphers  in  the  sick-room  :  Mrs.  Pryor  made 
it  her  domain  :  she  performed  all  its  duties ;  she  lived  in  it 
day  and  night.  The  patient  remonstrated— faintly,  however, 


430  SHIRLEY 

from  the  first,  and  not  at  all  erelong ;  loneliness  and  gloom 
were  now  banished  from  her  bedside ;  protection  and  solace 
sat  there  instead.  She  and  her  nurse  coalesced  in  wondrous 
union.  Caroline  was  usually  pained  to  require  or  receive 
much  attendance  :  Mrs.  Pryor,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
had  neither  the  habit  nor  the  art  of  performing  little  offices 
of  service  ;  but  all  now  passed  with  such  ease — so  naturally, 
that  the  patient  was  as  willing  to  be  cherished  as  the  nurse 
was  bent  on  cherishing :  no  sign  of  weariness  in  the  latter 
ever  reminded  the  former  that  she  ought  to  be  anxious. 
There  was,  in  fact,  no  very  hard  duty  to  perform ;  but  a 
hireling  might  have  found  it  hard. 

With  all  this  care,  it  seemed  strange  the  sick  girl  did  not 
get  well ;  yet  such  was  the  case :  she  wasted  like  any  snow- 
wreath  in  thaw ;  she  faded  like  any  flower  in  drought.  Miss 
Keeldar,  on  whose  thoughts  danger  or  death  seldom  intruded, 
had  at  first  entertained  no  fears  at  all  for  her  friend  ;  but 
seeing  her  change  and  sink  from  time  to  time  when  she  paid 
her  visits,  alarm  clutched  her  heart.  She  went  to  Mr. 
Helstone  and  expressed  herself  with  so  much  energy  that 
that  gentleman  was  at  last  obliged,  however  unwillingly,  to 
admit  the  idea  that  his  niece  was  ill  of  something  more  than 
a  migraine  ;  and  when  Mrs.  Pryor  came  and  quietly  demanded 
a  physician,  he  said  she  might  send  for  two  if  she  liked.  One 
came,  but  that  one  was  an  oracle  :  he  delivered  a  dark  saying 
of  which  the  future  was  to  solve  the  mystery,  wrote  some 
prescriptions,  gave  some  directions — the  whole  with  an  air  of 
crushing  authority  —pocketed  his  fee,  and  went.  Probably, 
lie  knew  well  enough  he  could  do  no  good  :  but  didn't  like  to 
say  so. 

Still,  no  rumour  of  serious  illness  got  wind  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. At  Hollow's-cottage  it  was  thought  that  Caroline 
had  only  a  severe  cold,  she  having  written  a  note  to  Hortense 
to  that  effect ;  and  Mademoiselle  contented  herself  with  send- 
ing two  pots  of  currant  jam,  a  receipt  for  a  tisane,  and  a  note 
of  advice. 

Mrs.    Yorke    being   told    that    a    physician    had    been 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  431 

summoned,  sneered  at  the  hypochondriac  fancies  of  the  rich 
and  idle,  who,  she  said,  have  nothing  but  themselves  to  think 
about,  and  must  needs  send  for  a  doctor  if  only  so  much  as 
their  little  finger  ached. 

The  '  rich  and  idle  '  represented  in  the  person  of  Caroline 
were  meantime  falling  fast  into  a  condition  of  prostration, 
whose  quickly  consummated  debility  puzzled  all  who 
witnessed  it,  except  one ;  for  that  one  alone  reflected  how 
liable  is  the  undermined  structure  to  sink  in  sudden  ruin. 

Sick  people  often  have  fancies  inscrutable  to  ordinary 
attendants,  and  Caroline  had  one  which  even  her  tender  nurse 
could  not  at  first  explain.  On  a  certain  day  in  the  week,  at 
a  certain  hour,  she  would — whether  worse  or  better— entreat 
to  be  taken  up  and  dressed,  and  suffered  to  sit  in  her  chair 
near  the  window.  This  station  she  would  retain  till  noon  was 
past :  whatever  degree  of  exhaustion  or  debility  her  wan 
aspect  betrayed,  she  still  softly  put  off  all  persuasion  to  seek 
repose  until  the  church-clock  had  duly  tolled  mid-day  :  the 
twelve  strokes  sounded,  she  grew  docile,  and  would  meekly 
lie  down.  Returned  to  the  couch,  she  usually  buried  her 
face  deep  in  the  pillow,  and  drew  the  coverlets  close 
round  her,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  world  and  sun,  of  which 
she  was  tired  :  more  than  once,  as  she  thus  lay,  a  slight 
convulsion  shook  the  sick-bed,  and  a  faint  sob  broke  thu 
silence  round  it.  These  things  were  not  unnoted  by 
Mrs.  Pry  or. 

One  Tuesday  morning,  as  usual,  she  had  asked  leave  to  rise, 
and  now  she  sat  wrapped  in  her  white  dressing-gown,  loaning 
forward  in  the  easy-chair,  gazing  steadily  and  patiently  from 
the  lattice.  Mrs.  Pryor  was  seated  a  little  behind,  knitting, 
as  it  seemed,  but,  in  truth,  watching  her.  A  change  crossed 
her  pale  mournful  brow,  animating  its  languor ;  a  light  shot 
into  her  faded  eyes,  reviving  their  lustre  ;  she  half  rose  and 
looked  earnestly  out.  Mrs.  Pryor,  drawing  softly  near, 
glanced  over  her  shoulder.  From  this  window  was  visible 
the  churchyard,  beyond  it  the  road,  and  there,  riding  sharply 
by  appeared  a  horseman.  The  figure  was  not  yet  too  remote 


432  SHIRLEY 

for  recognition  :  Mrs.  Pryor  had  long  sight ;  she  knew  Mr. 
Moore.  Just  as  an  intercepting  rising  ground  concealed  him 
from  view,  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

'  May  I  lie  down  again  ? '  asked  Caroline. 

Her  nurse  assisted  her  to  bed:  having  laid  her  down  and 
drawn  the  curtain,  she  stood  listening  near.  The  little  couch 
trembled,  the  suppressed  sob  stirred  the  air.  A  contraction  as 
of  anguish  altered  Mrs.  Pryor's  features ;  she  wrung  her 
hands ;  half  a  groan  escaped  her  lips.  She  now  remembered 
that  Tuesday  was  Whinbury  market-day  :  Mr.  Moore  must 
always  pass  the  Rectory  on  his  way  thither,  just  ere  noon  of 
that  day. 

Caroline  wore  continually  round  her  neck  a  slender  braid 
of  silk,  attached  to  which  was  some  trinket.  Mrs.  Pryor  had 
seen  the  bit  of  gold  glisten  ;  but  had  not  yet  obtained  a  fair 
view  of  it.  Her  patient  never  parted  with  it :  when  dressed 
it  was  hidden  in  her  bosom  ;  as  she  lay  in  bed  she  always  held 
it  in  her  hand.  That  Tuesday  afternoon  the  transient  doze 
— more  like  lethargy  than  sleep — which  sometimes  abridged 
the  long  days,  had  stolen  over  her  :  the  weather  was  hot  ; 
while  turning  in  febrile  restlessness,  she  had  pushed  the 
coverlets  a  little  aside  ;  Mrs.  Pryor  bent  to  replace  them ; 
the  small,  wasted  hand  lying  nerveless  on  the  sick  girl's 
breast,  clasped  as  usual  her  jealously-guarded  treasure  :  those 
lingers  whose  attenuation  it  gave  pain  to  see,  were  now 
relaxed  in  sleep :  Mrs.  Pryor  gently  disengaged  the  braid, 
drawing  out  a  tiny  locket— a  slight  thing  it  was,  such  as  it 
suited  her  small  purse  to  purchase :  under  its  crystal  face 
appeared  a  curl  of  black  hair — too  short  and  crisp  to  have 
been  severed  from  a  female  head. 

Some  agitated  movement  occasioned  a  twitch  of  the  silken 
chain  :  the  sleeper  started  and  woke.  Her  thoughts  were 
usually  now  somewhat  scattered  on  waking ;  her  look  gene- 
rally wandering.  Half-rising,  as  if  in  terror,  she  exclaimed : 
'  Don't  take  it  from  me,  Robert !  Don't !  It  is  my  last 
comfort — let  me  keep  it.  I  never  tell  any  one  whose  hair  it 
is — I  never  show  it.' 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  433 

Mrs.  Pryor  had  already  disappeai'ed  behind  the  curtain  : 
reclining  far  back  in  a  deep  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  she  was 
withdrawn  from  view.  Caroline  looked  abroad  into  the  cham- 
ber :  she  thought  it  empty.  As  her  stray  ideas  returned 
slowly,  each  folding  its  weak  wings  on  the  mind's  sad  shore, 
like  birds  exhausted,  beholding  void,  and  perceiving  silence 
round  her,  she  believed  herself  alone.  Collected,  she  was  not 
yet :  perhaps  healthy  self-possession  and  self-control  were  to 
be  hers  no  more ;  perhaps  that  world  the  strong  and  pro- 
sperous live  in  had  already  rolled  from  beneath  her  feet  for 
ever :  so,  at  least,  it  often  seemed  to  herself.  In  health,  she 
had  never  been  accustomed  to  think  aloud ;  but  now  words 
escaped  her  lips  unawares. 

1  Oh !  I  sJiould  see  him  once  more  before  all  is  over : 
Heaven  might  favour  me  thus  far ! '  she  cried.  '  God  grant 
me  a  little  comfort  before  I  die  !  '  was  her  humble  petition. 

'  But  he  will  not  know  I  am  ill  till  I  am  gone  ;  and  he 
will  come  when  they  have  laid  me  out,  and  I  am  senseless, 
cold,  and  stiff. 

1  What  can  my  departed  soul  feel  then  ?  Can  it  see  or 
know  what  happens  to  the  clay  ?  Can  spirits,  through  any 
medium,  communicate  with  living  flesh?  Can  the  dead  at  all 
revisit  those  they  leave  ?  Can  they  come  in  the  elements  ? 
Will  wind, water,  fire,  lend  me  a  path  to  Moore  ? 

'  Is  it  for  nothing  the  wind  sounds  almost  articulately 
sometimes — sings  as  I  have  lately  heard  it  sing  at  night — or 
passes  the  casement  sobbing,  as  if  for  sorrow  to  come  ?  Does 
nothing,  then,  haunt  it — nothing  inspire  it  ? 

'  Why,  it  suggested  to  me  words  one  night :  it  poured  a 
strain  which  I  could  have  written  down,  only  I  was  appalled, 
and  dared  not  rise  to  seek  pencil  and  paper  by  the  dim 
watchlight. 

'  What  is  that  electricity  they  speak  of,  whose  changes 
make  us  well  or  ill ;  whose  lack  or  excess  blasts  ;  whose 
even  balance  revives  ?  What  are  all  those  influences  that 
are  about  us  in  the  atmosphere,  that  keep  playing  over  our 
nerves  like  fingers  on  stringed  instruments,  and  call  forth 


434  SHIRLEY 

now  a  sweet  note,  and  now  a  wail — now  an  exultant  swell, 
and,  anon,  the  saddest  cadence? 

1  WJtere  is  the  other  world  ?  In  what  will  another  life 
consist  ?  Why  do  I  ask  ?  Have  I  not  cause  to  think  that 
the  hour  is  hasting  but  too  fast  when  the  veil  must  be  rent 
for  me  ?  Do  I  not  know  the  Grand  Mystery  is  likely  to 
burst  prematurely  on  me  ?  Great  Spirit  !  in  whose  good- 
ness I  confide ;  whom,  as  my  Father,  I  have  petitioned 
night  and  morning  from  early  infancy,  help  the  weak 
creation  of  thy  hands  !  Sustain  me  through  the  ordeal  I 
dread  and  must  undergo !  Give  me  strength !  Give  me 
patience  !  Give  me—  oh  !  give  me  FAITH  ! ' 

She  fell  back  on  her  pillow.  Mrs.  Pryor  found  means 
to  steal  quietly  from  the  room  :  she  re-entered  it  soon  after, 
apparently  as  composed  as  if  she  had  really  not  overheard 
this  strange  soliloquy. 

The  next  day  several  callers  came.  It  had  become 
known  that  Miss  Helstone  was  worse.  Mr.  Hall  and  his 
sister  Margaret  arrived  ;  both,  after  they  had  been  in  the 
sick-room,  quitted  it  in  tears  ;  they  had  found  the  patient 
more  altered  than  they  expected.  Hortense  Moore  came. 
Caroline  seemed  stimulated  by  her  presence  :  she  assured 
her,  smiling,  she  was  not  dangerously  ill ;  she  talked  to  her 
in  a  low  voice,  but  cheerfully :  during  her  stay,  excitement 
kept  up  the  flush  of  her  complexion :  she  looked  better. 

'  How  is  Mr.  Robert  ? '  asked  Mrs.  Pryor,  as  Hortense 
was  preparing  to  take  leave. 

'  He  was  very  well  when  he  left.' 

'  Left !     Is  he  gone  from  home  ? ' 

It  was  then  explained  that  some  police  intelligence 
about  the  rioters  of  whom  he  was  in  pursuit,  had,  that 
morning,  called  him  away  to  Birmingham,  and  probably  a 
fortnight  might  elapse  ere  he  returned. 

'  He  is  not  aware  that  Miss  Helstone  is  very  ill  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  no.  He  thought,  like  me,  that  she  had  only  a  bad 
cold.' 

After  this  visit,  Mrs.  Pryor  took  care  not  to  approach 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OP  DEATH  435 

Caroline's  couch  for  above  an  hour :  she  heard  her  weep, 
and  dared  not  look  on  her  tears. 

As  evening  closed  in,  she  brought  her  some  tea.  Caroline, 
opening  her  eyes  from  a  moment's  slumber,  viewed  her  nurse 
with  an  unrecognising  glance. 

'I  smelt  the  honeysuckles  in  the  glen  this  summer 
morning,'  she  said,  '  as  I  stood  at  the  counting-house 
window.' 

Strange  words  like  these  from  pallid  lips  pierce  a  loving 
listener's  heart  more  poignantly  than  steel.  They  sound 
romantic,  perhaps,  in  books  :  in  real  life,  they  are  harrowing. 

'  My  darling,  do  you  know  me  ? '  said  Mrs.  Pryor. 

'  I  went  in  to  call  Robert  to  breakfast :  I  have  been 
with  him  in  the  garden  :  he  asked  me  to  go  :  a  heavy  dew 
has  refreshed  the  flowers  :  the  peaches  are  ripening.' 

1  My  darling !  my  darling ! '  again  and  again  repeated  the 
nurse. 

'  I  thought  it  was  daylight— long  after  sunrise :  it  looks 
dark — is  the  moon  now  set?' 

That  moon,  lately  risen,  was  gazing  full  and  mild 
upon  her :  floating  in  deep  blue  space,  it  watched  her  un- 
clouded. 

'  Then  it  is  not  morning  ?  I  am  not  at  the  cottage  ? 
Who  is  this? — I  see  a  shape  at  my  bedside.' 

'  It  is  myself — it  is  your  friend — your  nurse — your . 

Lean  your  head  on  my  shoulder :  collect  yourself.'  (In  a 
lower  tone.)  '  Oh  God,  take  pity !  Give  /w?r  life,  and  me 
strength  !  Send  me  courage— teach  me  words  ! ' 

Some  minutes  passed  in  silence.  The  patient  lay  mute 
and  passive  in  the  trembling  arms — on  the  throbbing  bosom 
of  the  nurse. 

'  I  am  better  now,'  whispered  Caroline,  at  last,  '  much 
better — I  feel  where  I  am  :  this  is  Mrs.  Fryor  near  me  :  I 
was  dreaming  —I  talk  when  I  wake  up  from  dreams  :  people 
often  do  in  illness.  How  fast  your  heart  beats,  ma'am  !  Do 
not  be  afraid.' 

'It  is  not  fear,  child  ;  only  a  little  anxiety,  which  will 


436  SHIELEY 

pass.  I  have  brought  you  some  tea,  Gary  ;  your  uncle  made 
it  himself.  You  know  he  says  he  can  make  a  better  cup 
of  tea  than  any  housewife  can.  Taste  it.  He  is  concerned 
to  hear  that  you  eat  so  little :  he  would  be  glad  if  you  had  a 
better  appetite.' 

'  I  am  thirsty  :  let  me  drink.' 

She  drank  eagerly. 

'  What  o'clock  is  it,  ma'am  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Past  nine.' 

1  Not  later  ?  Oh !  I  have  yet  a  long  night  before  me : 
but  the  tea  has  made  me  strong  :  I  will  sit  up.' 

Mrs.  Pryor  raised  her,  and  arranged  her  pillows. 

'  Thank  Heaven !  I  am  not  always  equally  miserable, 
and  ill,  and  hopeless.  The  afternoon  has  been  bad  since 
Hortense  went :  perhaps  the  evening  may  be  better.  It  is  a 
fine  night,  I  think?  The  moon  shines  clear.' 

'  Very  fine  :  a  perfect  summer  night.  The  old  church- 
tower  gleams  white  almost  as  silver.' 

'  And  does  the  churchyard  look  peaceful  ? ' 

'  Yes,  and  the  garden  also :  dew  glistens  on  the  foliage.' 

'  Can  you  see  many  long  weeds  and  nettles  amongst  the 
graves,  or  do  they  look  turfy  and  flowery  ?  ' 

'  I  see  closed  daisy-heads,  gleaming  like  pearls  on  some 
mounds.  Thomas  has  mown  down  the  dock-leaves  and  rank 
grass,  and  cleared  all  away.' 

'  I  always  like  that  to  be  done :  it  soothes  one's  mind  to 
see  the  place  in  order  :  and,  I  dare  say,  within  the  church 
just  now  that  moonlight  shines  as  softly  as  in  my  room.  It 
will  fall  through  the  east  window  full  on  the  Helstone 
monument.  When  I  close  my  eyes  I  seem  to  see  poor 
papa's  epitaph  in  black  letters  on  the  white  marble.  There 
is  plenty  of  room  for  other  inscriptions  underneath.' 

'  William  Farren  carne  to  look  after  your  flowers  this 
morning  :  he  was  afraid,  now  you  cannot  tend  them  yourself, 
they  would  be  neglected.  He  has  taken  two  of  your 
favourite  plants  home  to  nurse  for  you.' 

'  Jf  I  were  to  make  a  will,  I  would  leave  William  all  my 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OP  DEATH  437 

plants ;  Shirley  my  trinkets — except  one,  which  must  not 
be  taken  off  my  neck  ;  and  you,  ma'am,  my  books.'  (After 
a  pause.)  'Mrs.  Pryor,  I  feel  a  longing  wish  for  some- 
thing.' 

1  For  what,  Caroline  ?  ' 

'  You  know  I  always  delight  to  hear  you  sing  ;  sing  me 
a  hymn  just  now  :  sing  that  hymn  which  begins, — 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, — 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come ; 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast ; 

Our  refuge,  haven,  home  I ' 

Mrs.  Pryor  at  once  complied. 

No  wonder  Caroline  liked  to  hear  her  sing :  her  voice, 
even  in  speaking,  was  sweet  and  silver  clear ;  in  song,  it 
was  almost  divine :  neither  flute  nor  dulcimer  has  tones  so 
pure.  But  the  tone  was  secondary  compared  to  the  ex- 
pression which  trembled  through :  a  tender  vibration  from 
a  feeling  heart. 

The  servants  in  the  kitchen,  hearing  the  strain,  stole  to 
the  stair-foot  to  listen  :  even  old  Helstone,  as  he  walked  in 
the  garden,  pondering  over  the  unaccountable  and  feeble 
nature  of  women,  stood  still  amongst  his  borders  to  catch 
the  mournful  melody  more  distinctly.  Why  it  reminded 
him  of  his  forgotten  dead  wife,  he  could  not  tell ;  nor  why 
it  made  him  more  concerned  than  he  had  hitherto  been  for 
Caroline's  fading  girlhood.  He  was  glad  to  recollect  that, 
he  had  promised  to  pay  Wynne,  the  magistrate,  a  visit  that 
evening.  Low  spirits  and  gloomy  thoughts  were  very  much 
his  aversion  :  when  they  attacked  him  he  usually  found 
means  to  make  them  inarch  in  double-quick  time.  The 
hymn  followed  him  faintly  as  he  crossed  the  fields :  he 
hastened  his  customary  sharp  pace,  that  ho  might  get  beyond 
its  reach. 

Thy  word  commands  our  flesh  to  dust, — 

4  Return,  ye  sons  of  men  ; ' 
All  nations  rose  from  earth  at  first, 
And  turn  to  earth  again. 


438  SHIELEY 

A  thousand  ages  in  thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone  ; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 

Before  the  rising  sun. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away ; 
They  fly,  forgotten,  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

Like  flowery  fields,  the  nations  stand, 

Fresh  in  the  morning  light ; 
The  flowers  beneath  the  mower's  hand 

Lie  withering  ere  'tis  night. 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, — 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come ; 
Be  thou  our  guard  while  troubles  last, 

O  Father,  be  our  home ! 

1  Now  sing  a  song — a  Scottish  song,'  suggested  Caroline 
when  the  hymn  was  over, — '  "  Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonny 
Doon." ' 

Again  Mrs.  Pryor  obeyed,  or  essayed  to  obey.  At  the 
close  of  the  first  stanza  she  stopped  :  she  could  get  no 
further  :  her  full  heart  flowed  over. 

1  You  are  weeping  at  the  pathos  of  the  air :  come  here, 
and  I  will  comfort  you,'  said  Caroline,  in  a  pitying  accent. 
Mrs.  Pryor  came  :  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  patient's 
bed,  and  allowed  the  wasted  arms  to  encircle  her. 

'  You  often  soothe  me,  let  me  soothe  you,'  murmured  the 
young  girl,  kissing  her  cheek.  '  I  hope,'  she  added,  '  it  is 
not  for  me  you  weep.' 

No  answer  followed. 

'  Do  you  think  I  shall  not  get  better  ?  I  do  not  feel  very 
ill— only  weak.' 

'  But  your  mind,  Caroline  :  your  mind  is  crushed  ;  your 
heart  is  almost  broken  :  you  have  been  so  neglected,  so 
repulsed,  left  so  desolate.' 

'  I  believe  grief  is,  and  always  has  been,  my  worst  ail- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  439 

ment.  I  sometimes  think,  if  an  abundant  gush  of  happi- 
ness came  on  me,  I  could  revive  yet." 

'  Do  you  wish  to  live  ? ' 

'  I  have  no  object  in  life.' 

'  You  love  me,  Caroline  ?  ' 

'  Very  much, — very  truly, — inexpressibly  sometimes  : 
just  now  I  feel  as  if  I  could  almost  grow  to  your  heart.' 

'  I  will  return  directly,  dear,'  remarked  Mrs.  Pryor,  as 
she  laid  Caroline  down. 

Quitting  her,  she  glided  to  the  door,  softly  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock,  ascertained  that  it  was  fast,  and  came 
back.  She  bent  over  her.  She  threw  back  the  curtain  to 
admit  the  moonlight  more  freely.  She  gazed  intently  on 
her  face. 

'  Then,  if  you  love  me,'  said  she,  speaking  quickly,  with 
an  altered  voice  :  '  if  you  feel  as  if — to  use  your  own  words 
— you  could  "  grow  to  my  heart,"  it  will  be  neither  shock  nor 
pain  for  you  to  know  that  that  heart  is  the  source  whence 
yours  was  filled  :  that  from  my  veins  issued  the  tide  which 
flows  in  yours  ;  that  you  are  mine — my  daughter — my  own 
child.' 

1  Mrs.  Pryor ! ' 

'  My  own  child ! ' 

'That  is — that  means — you  have  adopted  me?  ' 

'  It  means  that,  if  I  have  given  you  nothing  else,  I  at 
least  gave  you  life  ;  that  I  bore  you — nursed  you ;  that  I  am 
your  true  mother  :  no  other  woman  can  claim  the  title — it  is 
mine.' 

'But  Mrs.  James  Helstoiie — but  my  father's  wife  whom 
I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen,  she  is  my  niother  ? ' 

'  She  is  your  mother  :  James  Helstone  was  nnj  husband. 
I  say  you  are  mine.  I  have  proved  it.  I  thought  perhaps 
you  were  all  his,  which  would  have  been  a  cruel  dispensa- 
tion for  me  :  I  find  it  is  not  so.  God  permitted  me  to  be  the 
parent  of  my  child's  mind :  it  belongs  to  me :  it  is  my 
property — my  right.  These  features  are  James's  own.  He 
had  a  fine  face  when  he  was  young,  and  not  altered  by 


440  SHIELEY 

error.  Papa,  my  darling,  gave  you  your  blue  eyes  and  soft 
brown  bair :  he  gave  you  the  oval  of  your  face  and  the 
regularity  of  your  lineaments :  the  outside  he  conferred ; 
but  the  heart  and  the  brain  are  mine  :  the  germs  are  from 
me,  and  they  are  improved,  they  are  developed  to  excellence. 
I  esteem  and  approve  my  child  as  highly  as  I  do  most 
fondly  love  her.' 

1  Is  what  I  hear  true  ?    Is  it  no  dream  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  it  were  as  true  that  the  substance  and  colour  of 
health  were  restored  to  your  cheek.' 

1  My  own  mother !  is  she  one  I  can  be  so  fond  of  as  I 
can  of  you  ?  People  generally  did  not  like  her,  so  I  have 
been  given  to  understand.' 

'  They  told  you  that  ?  Well,  your  mother  now  tells  you, 
that,  not  having  the  gift  to  please  people  generally,  for  their 
approbation  she  does  not  care  :  her  thoughts  are  centered  in 
her  child  :  does  that  child  welcome  or  reject  her  ?  ' 

'  But  if  you  are  my  mother,  the  world  is  all  changed  to 
me.  Surely  I  can  live— I  should  like  to  recover ' 

'  You  must,  recover.  You  drew  life  and  strength  from 
my  breast  when  you  were  a  tiny,  fair  infant,  over  whose  blue 
eyes  I  used  to  weep,  fearing  I  beheld  in  your  very  beauty 
the  sign  of  qualities  that  had  entered  my  heart  like  iron, 
and  pierced  through  my  soul  like  a  sword.  Daughter  1  we 
have  been  long  parted  :  I  return  now  to  cherish  you  again.' 

She  held  her  to  her  bosom :  she  cradled  her  in  her 
arms  :  she  rocked  her  softly,  as  if  lulling  a  young  child  to 
sleep. 

'  My  mother  !     My  own  mother  1 ' 

The  offspring  nestled  to  the  parent :  that  parent,  feeling 
the  endearment  and  hearing  the  appeal,  gathered  her  closer 
still.  She  covered  her  with  noiseless  kisses  :  she  murmured 
love  over  her,  like  a  cushat  fostering  its  young. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  Ion"  while. 


'  Does  my  uncle  know  ?  ' 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  441 

'  Your  uncle  knows  :  I  told  him  when  I  first  came  to  stay 
with  you  here.' 

'  Did  you  recognise  me  when  we  first  met  at  Fieldhead  ?  ' 

'  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Mr.  and  Miss  Helstone 
being  announced,  I  was  prepared  to  see  my  child.' 

'  It  was  that  then  which  moved  you :  I  saw  you 
disturbed.' 

'  You  saw  nothing,  Caroline,  I  can  cover  my  feelings. 
You  can  never  tell  what  an  age  of  strange  sensation  I  lived, 
during  the  two  minutes  that  elapsed  between  the  report  of 
your  name  and  your  entrance.  You  can  never  tell  how  your 
look,  mien,  carriage,  shook  me.' 

'  Why  ?     Were  you  disappointed  ?  ' 

'  What  will  she  be  like  ?  I  had  asked  myself ;  and  when 
I  saw  what  you  were  like,  I  could  have  dropped.' 

'  Mamma,  why?  ' 

'  I  trembled  in  your  presence.  I  said  I  will  never  own 
her  ;  she  shall  never  know  me.' 

'  But  I  said  and  did  nothing  remarkable.  I  felt  a  little 
diffident  at  the  thought  of  an  introduction  to  strangers,  that 
was  all.' 

'  I  soon  saw  you  wore  diffident ;  that  was  the  first  thing 
which  re-assured  me  :  had  you  been  rustic,  clownish, 
awkward,  I  should  have  been  content.' 

'  You  puzzle  me.' 

'  I  had  reason  to  dread  a  fair  outside,  to  mistrust  a 
popular  bearing,  to  shudder  before  distinction,  grace,  and 
courtesy.  Beauty  and  affability  had  come  in  my  way  when 
I  was  recluse,  desolate,  young,  and  ignorant:  a  toil-worn 
governess  perishing  of  uncheerecl  labour,  breaking  down 
before  her  time.  These,  Caroline,  when  they  smiled  on  me, 
I  mistook  for  angels!  I  followed  them  home,  and  when 
into  their  hands  I  had  given  without  reserve  my  whole 
chance  of  future  happiness,  it  was  my  lot  to  witness  a  trans- 
figuration on  the  domestic  hearth  :  to  see  the  white  mask 
lifted,  the  bright  disguise  put  away,  and  opposite  me  sat 
down oh  God  !  I  Jtavc  suffered  ! ' 


442  SHIRLEY 

She  sank  on  the  pillow. 

'  I  have  suffered  !  None  saw — none  knew :  there  was  no 
sympathy — no  redemption — no  redress  ! ' 

'  Take  comfort,  mother :  it  is  over  now.' 

1  It  is  over,  and  not  fruitlessly.  I  tried  to  keep  the  word 
of  His  patience  :  He  kept  me  in  the  days  of  my  anguish.  I 
was  afraid  with  terror — I  was  troubled :  through  great 
tribulation  He  brought  me  through  to  a  salvation  revealed 
in  this  last  time.  My  fear  had  torment — He  has  cast  it 
out :  He  has  given  me  in  its  stead  perfect  love.  .  .  .  But, 
Caroline ' 

Thus  she  invoked  her  daughter  after  a  pause. 

'  Mother ! ' 

'  I  charge  you,  when  you  next  look  on  your  father's 
monument,  to  respect  the  name  chiselled  there.  To  you  he 
did  only  good.  On  you  he  conferred  his  whole  treasure  of 
beauties ;  nor  added  to  them  one  dark  defect.  All  you 
derived  from  him  is  excellent.  You  owe  him  gratitude. 
Leave,  between  him  and  me,  the  settlement  of  our  mutual 
account:  meddle  not :  God  is  the  arbiter.  This  world's  laws 
never  came  near  us — never !  They  were  powerless  as  a 
rotten  bulrush  to  protect  me ! — impotent  as  idiot  babblings 
to  restrain  him  !  As  you  said,  it  is  all  over  now  :  the  grave 
lies  between  us.  There  he  sleeps — in  that  church  !  To  his 
dust  I  say  this  night,  what  I  never  said  before,  "  James, 
slumber  peacefully  !  See  !  your  terrible  debt  is  cancelled  ! 
Look  !  I  wipe  out  the  long,  black  account  with  my  own 
hand  !  James,  your  child  atones  :  this  living  likeness  of  you 
— this  thing  with  your  perfect  features — this  one  good  gift 
you  gave  me  has  nestled  affectionately  to  my  heart,  and 
tenderly  called  me  '  mother.'  Husband  !  rest  forgiven  !  " 

'  Dearest  mother,  that  is  right !  Can  papa's  spirit  hear 
us  ?  Is  he  comforted  to  know  that  we  still  love  him  ? ' 

'  I  said  nothing  of  love  :  I  spoke  of  forgiveness.  Mind 
the  truth,  child — I  said  nothing  of  love  ?  On  the  threshold 
of  eternity,  should  he  be  there  to  see  me  enter,  will  I 
maintain  that.' 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  443 

'  Oh,  mother  !  you  must  have  suffered  ! ' 

'  Oh,  child !  the  human  heart  can  suffer.  It  can  hold 
more  tears  than  the  ocean  holds  waters.  We  never  know 
how  deep — how  wide  it  is,  till  misery  begins  to  unbind  her 
clouds,  and  fill  it  with  rushing  blackness.' 

'  Mother,  forget.' 

'  Forget ! '  she  said,  with  the  strangest  spectre  of  a 
laugh.  'The  north  pole  will  rush  to  the  south,  and  the 
headlands  of  Europe  be  locked  into  the  bays  of  Australia  ere 
I  forget.' 

'  Hush,  mother  !  rest ! — be  at  peace ! ' 

And  the  child  lulled  the  parent,  as  the  parent  had  erst 
lulled  the  child.  At  last  Mrs.  Pryor  wept :  she  then  grew 
calmer.  She  resumed  those  tender  cares  agitation  had  for  a 
moment  suspended.  Eeplacing  her  daughter  on  the  couch, 
she  smoothed  the  pillow  and  spread  the  sheet.  The  soft 
hair  whose  locks  were  loosened,  she  rearranged ;  the  damp 
brow  she  refreshed  with  a  cool,  fragrant  essence. 

1  Mamma,  let  them  bring  a  candle,  that  I  may  see  you  ; 
and  tell  my  uncle  to  come  into  this  room  by-and-by:  I 
want  to  hear  him  say  that  I  am  your  daughter :  and, 
mamma,  take  your  supper  here;  don't  leave  me  for  one 
minute  to-night.' 

'  Oh,  Caroline !  it  is  well  you  are  gentle.  You  will  say 
to  me  go,  and  I  shall  go ;  come,  and  I  shall  come ;  do  this, 
and  I  shall  do  it.  You  inherit  a  certain  manner  as  well  as 
certain  features.  It  will  be  always  "  mamma  "  prefacing  a 
mandate :  softly  spoken  though  from  you,  thank  God ! 
Well'  (she  added,  under  her  breath),  'he  spoke  softly  too, 
once,  —like  a  flute  breathing  tenderness  ;  and  then,  when 
the  world  was  not  by  to  listen,  discords  that  split  the  nerves 
and  curdled  the  blood — sounds  to  inspire  insanity.' 

'  It  seems  so  natural,  mamma,  to  ask  you  for  this  and 
that.  I  shall  want  nobody  but  you  to  be  near  me,  or  to  do 
anything  for  me  ;  but  do  not  let  me  be  troublesome  :  check 
me,  if  I  encroach.' 

1  You  must  not  depend  on  me  to  check  you :  you  must 


444  SHIELEY 

keep  guard  over  yourself.  I  have  little  moral  courage :  the 
want  of  it  is  my  bane.  It  is  that  which  has  made  me  an 
unnatural  parent — which  has  kept  me  apart  from  my  child 
during  the  ten  years  which  have  elapsed  since  my  husband's 
death  left  me  at  liberty  to  claim  her  :  it  was  that  which  first 
unnerved  my  arms  and  permitted  the  infant  I  might  have 
retained  a  while  longer,  to  be  snatched  prematurely  from 
their  embrace.' 

'  How,  mamma  ? ' 

'  I  let  you  go  as  a  babe,  because  you  were  pretty,  and  I 
feared  your  loveliness  ;  deeming  it  the  stamp  of  perversity. 
They  sent  me  your  portrait,  taken  at  eight  years  old ;  that 
portrait  confirmed  my  fears.  Had  it  shown  me  a  sunburnt 
little  rustic — a  heavy,  blunt-featured,  commonplace  child — 
I  should  have  hastened  to  claim  you ;  but  there,  under  the 
silver  paper,  I  saw  blooming  the  delicacy  of  an  aristocratic 
flower — "  little  lady  "  was  written  on  every  trait.  I  had  too 
recently  crawled  from  under  the  yoke  of  the  fine  gentleman 
— escaped,  galled,  crushed,  paralyzed,  dying — to  dare  to 
encounter  his  still  finer  and  most  fairy-like  representative. 
My  sweet  little  lady  overwhelmed  me  with  dismay  :  her  air 
of  native  elegance  froze  my  very  marrow.  In  my  experience 
I  had  not  met  with  truth,  modesty,  good  principle  as  the 
concomitants  of  beauty.  A  form  so  straight  and  fine,  I 
argued,  must  conceal  a  mind  warped  and  cruel.  I  had  little 
faith  in  the  power  of  education  to  rectify  such  a  mind ;  or 
rather,  I  entirely  misdoubted  my  own  ability  to  influence  it. 
Caroline,  I  dared  not  undertake  to  rear  you  :  I  resolved  to 
leave  you  in  your  uncle's  hands.  Matthewson  Helstone,  I 
knew,  if  an  austere,  was  an  upright  man.  He  and  all  the 
world  thought  hardly  of  me  for  my  strange,  unmotherly 
resolve,  and  I  deserved  to  be  misjudged.' 

'  Mamma,  why  did  you  call  yourself  Mrs.  Pryor  ?  ' 

'  It  was  a  name  in  my  mother's  family.  I  adopted  it 
that  I  might  live  unmolested.  My  married  name  recalled 
too  vividly  my  married  life  :  I  could  not  bear  it.  Besides, 
threats  were  uttered  of  forcing  me  to  return  to  bondage  :  it 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  445 

could  not  be  ;  rather  a  bier  for  a  bed — the  grave  for  a  home. 
My  new  name  sheltered  me  :  I  resumed  under  its  screen  my 
old  occupation  of  teaching.  At  first,  it  scarcely  procured 
me  the  means  of  sustaining  life ;  but  how  savoury  was 
hunger  when  I  fasted  in  peace !  How  safe  seemed  the 
darkness  and  chill  of  an  unkindled  hearth,  when  no  lurid 
reflection  from  terror  crimsoned  its  desolation !  How 
serene  was  solitude,  when  I  feared  not  the  irruption  of 
violence  and  vice  ! ' 

'But,  mamma,  you  have  been  in  this  neighbourhood 
before.  How  did  it  happen,  that  when  you  reappeared  here 
with  Miss  Keeldar,  you  were  not  recognised  ? ' 

'  I  only  paid  a  short  visit,  as  a  bride,  twenty  years  ago ; 
and  then  I  was  very  different  to  what  I  am  now — slender, 
almost  as  slender  as  my  daughter  is  at  this  day :  my  com- 
plexion— my  very  features  are  changed  ;  my  hair,  my  style 
of  dress — everything  is  altered.  You  cannot  fancy  me  a 
slim  young  person,  attired  in  scanty  drapery  of  white  muslin, 
with  bare  arms,  bracelets  and  necklace  of  beads,  and  hair 
disposed  in  round  Grecian  curls  above  my  forehead  ?  ' 

'  You  must,  indeed,  have  been  different.  Mamma,  I  heard 
the  front  door  open  :  if  it  is  my  uncle  coming  in,  just  ask 
him  to  step  up-stairs,  and  let  me  hear  his  assurance  that  I 
am  truly  awake  and  collected,  and  not  dreaming  or  delirious.' 

The  Rector,  of  his  own  accord,  was  mounting  the  stairs ; 
and  Mrs.  Pryor  summoned  him  to  his  niece's  apartment. 

'  She's  not  worse,  I  hope  ?  '  he  inquired  hastily. 

'  I  think  her  better ;  she  is  disposed  to  converse — she 
seems  stronger.' 

'  Good  ! '  said  he,  brushing  quickly  into  the  room.  '  Ha, 
Gary  !  how  do  ?  Did  you  drink  my  cup  of  tea  ?  I  made  it 
for  you  just  as  I  like  it  myself.' 

'  I  drank  it  every  drop,  uncle  :  it  did  me  good — it  has  made 
me  quite  alive.  I  have  a  wish  for  company,  so  I  begged 
Mrs.  Pryor  to  call  you  in.' 

The  respected  ecclesiastic  looked  pleased,  and  yet  embar- 
rassed. He  was  willing  enough  to  bestow  his  company  on  his 


446 

sick  niece  for  ten  minutes,  since  it  was  her  whim  to  wish  it ; 
but  what  means  to  employ  for  her  entertainment,  he  knew 
not :  he  hemmed — he  fidgeted. 

1  You'll  be  up  in  a  trice,'  he  observed,  by  way  of  saying 
something.  '  The  little  weakness  will  soon  pass  off ;  and  then 
you  must  drink  port- wine—  a  pipe,  if  you  can— and  eat  game 
and  oysters :  I'll  get  them  for  you,  if  they  are  to  be  had  any- 
where. Bless  me  !  we'll  make  you  as  strong  as  Samson 
before  we've  done  with  you.' 

'  Who  is  that  lady,  uncle,  standing  beside  you  at  the  bed- 
foot  ? ' 

'  Good  God  ! '  he  ejaculated.  '  She's  not  wandering — is 
she,  ma'am?' 

Mrs.  Pryor  smiled. 

'  I  am  wandering  in  a  pleasant  world,'  said  Caroline,  in  a 
soft,  happy  voice,  '  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  whether  it  is 
real  or  visionary.  What  lady  is  that  ?  Give  her  a  name 
uncle  ? ' 

'  We  must  have  Dr.  Kile  again,  ma'am,  or  better  still, 
MacTurk  :  he's  less  of  a  humbug.  Thomas  must  saddle  the 
pony,  and  go  for  him.' 

'  No  :  I  don't  want  a  doctor ;  mamma  shall  be  my  only 
physician.  Now,  do  you  understand,  uncle  ? ' 

Mr.  Helstonc  pushed  up  his  spectacles  from  his 
nose  to  his  forehead,  handled  his  snuff-box,  and  administered 
to  himself  a  portion  of  the  contents.  Thus  fortified,  he 
answered  briefly  : — '  I  see  daylight.  You've  told  her  then, 
ma'am  ? ' 

'  And  is  it  true  ? '  demanded  Caroline,  rising  on  her  pillow. 
'  Is  she  really  my  mother  ?  ' 

'  You  won't  cry,  or  make  any  scene,  or  turn  hysterical,  if 
I  answer  Yes?  ' 

'  Cry  ?  I'd  cry  if  you  s:iid  No.  It  would  be  terrible  to  l>o 
disappointed  now.  But  give  her  a  name  :  how  do  you  c;ill 
her  ?  ' 

'  I  call  thio  stout  lady  in  a  quaint  black  dress,  who  looks 
youn^r  enough  to  wear  much  smarter  raiment,  if  she  would — 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  447 

I  call  her  Agnes  Helstone  :  she  married  my  brother  James, 
and  is  his  widow.' 

'  And  my  mother  ?  ' 

'  What  a  little  sceptic  it  is !  Look  at  her  small  face,  Mrs. 
Pryor,  scarcely  larger  than  the  palm  of  my  hand,  alive  with 
acuteness  and  eagerness.'  (To  Caroline.) — '  She  had  the 
trouble  of  bringing  you  into  the  world  at  any  rate  :  mind  you 
show  your  duty  to  her  by  quickly  getting  well,  and  repairing 
the  waste  of  these  cheeks.  Heigho  !  she  used  to  be  plump : 
what  she  has  done  with  it  all,  I  can't,  for  the  life  of  me, 
divine.' 

'  If  wishing  to  get  well  will  help  me,  I  shall  not  be  long 
sick.  This  morning,  I  had  no  reason  and  no  strength  to 
wish  it.' 

Fanny  here  tapped  at  the  door,  and  said  that  supper  was 
ready. 

'  Uncle,  if  you  please,  you  may  send  me  a  little  bit  of 
supper — anything  you  like,  from  your  own  plate.  That  is 
wiser  than  going  into  hysterics, — is  it  not  ?  ' 

'  It  is  spoken  like  a  sage,  Gary :  see  if  I  don't  cater  for 
you  judiciously.  When  women  are  sensible — and,  above  all, 
intelligible — I  can  get  on  with  them.  It  is  only  the  vague, 
superfine  sensations,  and  extremely  wire-drawn  notions,  that 
put  me  about.  Let  a  woman  ask  me  to  give  her  an  edible  or 
a  wearable — be  the  same  a  roc's  egg  or  the  breastplate  of 
Aaron,  a  share  of  St.  John's  locusts  and  honey  or  the 
leathern  girdle  about  his  loins — I  can,  at  least,  understand 
the  demand  :  but  when  they  pine  for  they  know  not  what — 
sympathy — sentiment — some  of  these  indefinite  abstractions 
—I  can't  do  it ;  I  don't  know  it ;  I  haven't  get  it.  Madam, 
accept  my  arm.' 

Mrs.  Pryor  signified  that  she  should  stay  with  her 
daughter  that  evening.  Ilelstone,  accordingly,  left  tlic.ni  to- 
gether. He  soon  returned,  bringing  a  plate  in  his  own 
consecrated  hand. 

'  This  is  chicken,'  he  said  ;  '  but  we'll  have  partridge  to- 
morrow. Lift  her  up,  and  put  a  shawl  over  her.  On  uiy 


448  SHIRLEY 

word,  I  understand  nursing.  Now,  here  is  the  very  same  little? 
silver  fork  you  used  when  you  first  came  to  the  Eectory : 
that  strikes  me  as  being  what  you  may  call  a  happy  thought 
— a  delicate  attention.  Take  it,  Gary,  and  munch  away 
cleverly.' 

Caroline  did  her  best.  Her  uncle  frowned  to  see  that  her 
powers  were  so  limited  :  he  prophesied,  however,  great  things 
for  the  future  ;  and  as  she  praised  the  morsel  he  had  brought, 
and  smiled  gratefully  in  his  face,  he  stooped  over  her  pillow, 
kissed  her,  and  said,  with  a  broken,  rugged  accent, — '  Good- 
night, bairnie  !  God  bless  thee  ! ' 

Caroline  enjoyed  such  peaceful  rest  that  night,  circled 
by  her  mother's  arms,  and  pillowed  on  her  breast,  that  she 
forgot  to  wish  for  any  other  stay ;  and  though  more  than 
one  feverish  dream  came  to  her  in  slumber,  yet,  when  she 
woke  up  panting,  so  happy  and  contented  a  feeling  returned 
with  returning  consciousness,  that  her  agitation  was  soothed 
almost  as  soon  as  felt. 

As  to  the  mother,  she  spent  the  night  like  Jacob  at  Peniel. 
Till  break  of  day,  she  wrestled  with  God  in  earnest  prayer. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   WEST  'WIND   BLOWS 

NOT  always  do  those  who  dare  such  divine  conflict  prevail. 
Night  after  night  the  sweat  of  agony  may  burst  dark  on  the 
forehead ;  the  supplicant  may  cry  for  mercy  with  that  sound- 
less voice  the  soul  utters  when  its  appeal  is  to  the  Invisible. 
'  Spare  my  beloved,'  it  may  implore.  '  Heal  my  life's  life. 
Bend  not  from  me  what  long  affection  entwines  with  my 
whole  nature.  God  of  heaven — bend — hear — be  clement ! ' 
And  after  this  cry  and  strife,  the  sun  may  rise  and  see  him 
worsted.  That  opening  morn,  which  used  to  salute  him  with 
the  whisper  of  zephyrs,  the  carol  of  skylarks,  may  breathe,  as 
its  first  accents,  from  the  dear  lips  which  colour  and  heat 
have  quitted,  '  Oh  !  I  have  had  a  suffering  night.  This  morn- 
ing I  am  worse.  I  have  tried  to  rise.  I  cannot.  Dreams  I 
am  unused  to  have  troubled  me.' 

Then  the  watcher  approaches  the  patient's  pillow,  and  sees 
a  new  and  strange  moulding  of  the  familiar  features,  feels  at 
once  that  the  insufferable  moment  draws  nigh,  knows  that  it 
is  God's  will  his  idol  shall  be  broken,  and  bends  his  head,  and 
subdues  his  soul  to  the  sentence  he  cannot  avert,  and  scarce 
can  bear. 

Happy  Mrs.  Pryor !  She  was  still  praying,  unconscious 
that  the  summer  sun  hung  above  the  hills,  when  her  child 
softly  woke  in  her  arms.  No  piteous,  unconscious  moaning 
— sound  which  so  wastes  our  strength  that,  even  if  we  havo 
sworn  to  be  firm,  a  rush  of  unconquerable  tears  sweeps  away 
the  oath — preceded  her  waking.  No  space  of  deaf  apathy 
followed.  The  first  words  spoken  were  not  those  of  one 


450  SHIRLEY 

becoming  estranged  from  this  world,  and  already  permitted  to 
stray  at  times  into  realms  foreign  to  the  living.  Caroline 
evidently  remembered  with  clearness  what  had  happened. 

'  Mamma,  I  have  slept  so  well.  I  only  dreamed  and  woke 
twice.' 

Mrs.  Pryor  rose  with  a  start,  that  her  daughter  might  not 
see  the  joyful  tears  called  into  her  eyes  by  that  affectionate 
word  '  mamma,'  and  the  welcome  assurance  that  followed  it. 

For  many  days  the  mother  dared  rejoice  only  with 
trembling.  That  first  revival  seemed  like  the  flicker  of  a 
dying  lamp  :  if  the  flame  streamed  up  bright  one  moment,  the 
next  it  sank  dim  in  the  socket.  Exhaustion  followed  close 
on  excitement. 

There  was  always  a  touching  endeavour  to  appear  better, 
but  too  often  ability  refused  to  second  will ;  too  often  the 
attempt  to  bear  up  failed :  the  effort  to  eat,  to  talk,  to  look 
cheerful,  was  unsuccessful.  Many  an  hour  passed,  during 
which  Mrs.  Pryor  feared  that  the  chords  of  life  could  never 
more  be  strengthened,  though  the  time  of  their  breaking 
might  be  deferred. 

During  this  space  the  mother  and  daughter  seemed  left 
almost  alone  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  was  the  close  of 
August :  the  weather  was  fine — that  is  to  say,  it  was  very 
dry  and  very  dusty,  for  an  arid  wind  had  been  blowing  from 
the  east  this  month  past :  very  cloudless,  too,  though  a  pale 
haze,  stationary  in  the  atmosphere,  seemed  to  rob  of  all 
depth  of  tone  the  blue  of  heaven,  of  all  freshness  the  verdure 
of  earth,  and  of  all  glow  the  light  of  day.  Almost  every 
family  in  Briarficld  was  absent  on  an  excursion.  Miss 
Keeldar  and  her  friends  were  at  the  sea-side  ;  so  were  Mrs. 
Yoike's  household.  Mr.  Hall  and  Louis  Moore,  between 
whom  a  spontaneous  intimacy  seemed  to  have  arisen,  the 
result,  probably,  of  harmony  of  views  and  temperament, 
were  gone  '  up  north  '  on  a  pedestrian  excursion  to  the  Lakes. 
Even  Hortense,  who  would  fain  have  stayed  at  home  and 
aided  Mrs.  Pryor  in  nursing  Caroline,  had  been  so  earnestly 
entreated  by  Miss  Mann  to  accompany  her  once  more  to 


THE   WEST  WIND  BLOWS  451 

Wormwood  Wells,  in  the  hope  of  alleviating  sufferings 
greatly  aggravated  by  the  insalubrious  weather,  that  she  felt 
obliged  to  comply  ;  indeed,  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  refuse 
a  request  that  at  once  appealed  to  her  goodness  of  heart, 
and — by  a  confession  of  dependency — flattered  her  amour- 
propre.  As  for  Robert,  from  Birmingham  he  had  gone  on  to 
London,  where  he  still  sojourned. 

So  long  as  the  breath  of  Asiatic  deserts  parched  Caroline's 
lips  and  fevered  her  veins,  her  physical  convalescence  could 
not  keep  pace  with  her  returning  mental  tranquillity  :  but 
there  came  a  day  when  the  wind  ceased  to  sob  at  the 
eastern  gable  of  the  Rectory,  and  at  the  oriel  window  of  the 
church.  A  little  cloud  like  a  man's  hand  arose  in  the  west; 
gusts  from  the  same  quarter  drove  it  on  and  spread  it  wide ; 
wet  and  tempest  prevailed  a  while.  When  that  was  over 
the  sun  broke  out  genially,  heaven  regained  its  azure,  and 
earth  its  green  :  the  livid  cholera-tint  had  vanished  from  the 
face  of  nature  :  the  hills  rose  clear  round  the  horizon,  ab- 
solved from  that  pale  malaria-haze. 

Caroline's  youth  could  now  be  of  some  avail  to  her,  and 
so  could  her  mother's  nurture :  both — crowned  by  God's 
blessing,  sent  in  the  pure  west  wind  blowing  soft  as  fresh 
through  the  ever-open  chamber  lattice — rekindled  her  long- 
languishing  energies.  At  last  Mrs.  Pryor  saw  that  it  was 
permitted  to  hope — a  genuine,  material  convalescence  had 
commenced.  It  was  not  merely  Caroline's  smile  which  was 
brighter,  or  her  spirits  which  were  cheered,  but  a  certain  look 
had  passed  from  her  face  and  eye— a  look  dread  and  unde- 
scribable,  but  which  will  easily  be  recalled  by  those  who 
have  watched  the  couch  of  dangerous  disease.  Long  before 
the  emaciated  outlines  of  her  aspect  began  to  fill,  or  its  de- 
parted colour  to  return,  a  more  subtle  change  took  place  :  all 
grew  softer  and  warmer.  Instead  of  a  marble  mask  and 
glassy  eye,  Mrs.  Pryor  saw  laid  on  the  pillow  a  face  pale 
and  wasted  enough,  perhaps  more  haggard  than  the  other 
appearance,  but  less  awful ;  for  it  was  a  sick,  living  girl- 
not  a  mere  white  mould,  or  rigid  piece  of  statuary. 

16 


452  SHIRLEY 

Now,  too,  she  was  not  always  petitioning  to  drink.  The 
words  '  I  am  so  thirsty,'  ceased  to  be  her  plaint.  Sometimes, 
when  she  had  swallowed  a  morsel,  she  would  say  it  had  re- 
vived her  :  all  descriptions  of  food  were  no  longer  equally 
distasteful ;  she  could  be  induced,  sometimes,  to  indicate  a 
preference.  With  what  trembling  pleasure  and  anxious  care 
did  not  her  nurse  prepare  what  was  selected !  How  she 
watched  her  as  she  partook  of  it ! 

Nourishment  brought  strength.  She  could  sit  up.  Then 
she  longed  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  to  revisit  her  flowers,  to  see 
how  the  fruit  had  ripened.  Her  uncle,  always  liberal,  had 
bought  a  garden-chair  for  her  express  use  :  he  carried  her 
down  in  his  own  arms,  and  placed  her  in  it  himself,  and 
William  Farren  was  there  to  wheel  her  round  the  walks,  to 
show  her  what  he  had  done  amongst  her  plants,  to  take  her 
directions  for  further  work. 

William  and  she  found  plenty  to  talk  about :  they  had  a 
dozen  topics  in  common ;  interesting  to  them,  unimportant 
to  the  rest  of  the  world.  They  took  a  similar  interest 
in  animals,  birds,  insects,  and  plants  :  they  held  similar 
doctrines  about  humanity  to  the  lower  creation ;  and  had  a 
similar  turn  for  minute  observation  on  points  of  natural 
history.  The  nest  and  proceedings  of  some  ground-bees, 
which  had  burrowed  in  the  turf  under  an  old  cherry-tree, 
was  one  subject  of  interest :  the  haunts  of  certain  hedge- 
sparrows,  and  the  welfare  of  certain  pearly  eggs  and  callow 
fledglings,  another. 

Had  Chambcrs's  Journal  existed  in  those  days,  it  would 
certainly  have  formed  Miss  Helstone's  and  Farren's  favourite 
periodical.  She  would  have  subscribed  for  it ;  and  to  him 
each  number  would  duly  have  been  lent :  both  would  have 
put  implicit  faith,  and  found  great  savour  in  its  marvellous 
anecdotes  of  animal  sagacity. 

This  is  a  digression  ;  but  it  suffices  to  explain  why 
Caroline  would  have  no  other  hand  than  William's  to  guide 
her  chair,  and  why  his  society  and  conversation  sufficed  to 
give  interest  to  her  garden-airings. 


THE  WEST   WIND  BLOWS  453 

Mrs.  Pryor,  walking  near,  wondered  how  her  daughter 
could  be  so  much  at  ease  with  a  '  man  of  the  people.'  She 
found  it  impossible  to  speak  to  him  otherwise  than  stiffly. 
She  felt  as  if  a  great  gulf  lay  between  her  caste  and  his ; 
and  that  to  cross  it,  or  meet  him  half-way,  would  be  to  de- 
grade herself.  She  gently  asked  Caroline — '  Are  you  not 
afraid,  my  dear,  to  converse  with  that  person  so  unre- 
servedly ?  He  may  presume,  and  become  troublesomely 
garrulous.' 

'  William  presume,  mamma  ?  You  don't  know  him.  He 
never  presumes  :  he  is  altogether  too  proud  and  sensitive  to 
do  so.  William  has  very  fine  feelings.' 

And  Mrs.  Pryor  smiled  sceptically  at  the  naive  notion  of 
that  rough-handed,  rough-headed,  fustian-clad  clown  having 
'  fine  feelings.' 

Farren,  for  his  part,  showed  Mrs.  Pryor  only  a  very  sulky 
brow.  He  knew  when  he  was  misjudged,  and  was  apt  to 
turn  unmanageable  with  such  as  failed  to  give  him  his  due. 

The  evening  restored  Caroline  entirely  to  her  mother, 
and  Mrs.  Pryor  liked  the  evening ;  for  then,  alone  with  her 
daughter,  no  human  shadow  came  between  her  and  what  she 
loved.  During  the  day  she  would  have  her  stiff  demeanour 
and  cool  moments,  as  was  her  wont.  Between  her  and  Mr. 
Helstone  a  very  respectful  but  most  rigidly  ceremonious 
intercourse  was  kept  up  :  anything  like  familiarity  would 
have  bred  contempt  at  once  in  one  or  both  these  personages ; 
but  by  dint  of  strict  civility  and  well-maintained  distance, 
they  got  on  very  smoothly. 

Towards  the  servants,  Mrs.  Pryor's  bearing  was  not 
uncourteous,  but  shy,  freezing,  ungenial.  Perhaps  it  was 
diffidence  rather  than  pride  which  made  her  appear  so 
haughty ;  but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  Fanny  and  Eliza 
failed  to  make  the  distinction,  and  she  was  unpopular  with 
them  accordingly.  She  felt  the  effect  produced  :  it  rendered 
her  at  times  dissatisfied  with  herself  for  faults  she  could 
not  help  ;  and  with  all  else,  dejected,  chill,  and  taciturn. 
This  mood  changed  to  Caroline's  influence,  and  to  that 


454  SHIELEY 

influence  alone.  The  dependent  fondness  of  her  nursling, 
the  natural  affection  of  her  child,  came  over  her  suavely  :  her 
frost  fell  away ;  her  rigidity  unbent :  she  grew  smiling  and 
pliant.  Not  that  Caroline  made  any  wordy  profession  of 
love — that  would  ill  have  suited  Mrs.  Pryor:  she  would 
have  read  therein  the  proof  of  insincerity  ;  but  she  hung  on 
her  with  easy  dependence  ;  she  confided  in  her  with  fearless 
reliance  :  these  things  contented  the  mother's  heart. 

She  liked  to  hear  her  daughter  say  '  Mamma,  do  this.' 
1  Please,  mamma,  fetch  me  that.'  '  Mamma,  read  to  me.' 
1  Sing  a  little,  mamma.' 

Nobody  else — not  one  living  thing — had  ever  so  claimed 
her  services,  so  looked  for  help  at  her  hand.  Other  people 
were  always  more  or  less  reserved  and  stiff  with  her,  as  she 
was  reserved  and  stiff  with  them  ;  other  people  betrayed 
consciousness  of,  and  annoyance  at  her  weak  points :  Caroline 
no  more  showed  such  wounding  sagacity  or  reproachful 
sensitiveness  now,  than  she  had  done  when  a  suckling  of 
three  mouths  old. 

Yet  Caroline  could  find  fault.  Blind  to  the  constitu- 
tional defects  that  were  incurable,  she  had  her  eyes  wide 
open  to  the  acquired  habits  that  were  susceptible  of  remedy. 
On  certain  points  she  would  quite  artlessly  lecture  her 
parent ;  and  that  parent,  instead  of  being  hurt,  felt  a  sensa- 
tion of  pleasure  in  discovering  that  the  girl  dared  lecture  her  ; 
that  she  was  so  much  at  home  with  her. 

'  Mamma,  I  am  determined  you  shall  not  wear  that  old 
gown  any  more ;  its  fashion  is  not  becoming :  it  is  too 
straight  in  the  skirt.  You  shall  put  on  your  black  silk  every 
afternoon ;  in  that  you  look  nice  :  it  suits  you  ;  and  you 
shall  have  a  black  satin  dress  for  Sundays — a  real  satin- 
not  a  satinet  or  any  of  the  shams.  And,  mamma,  when 
you  get  the  new  one,  mind  you  must  wear  it.' 

'  My  dear,  I  thought  of  the  black  silk  serving  me  as  a 
b.;st  dress  for  many  years  yet,  and  I  wished  to  buy  you 
several  things.' 

'  Nonsense,  mamma :  my   uncle   gives  me  cash  to  get 


THE  WEST  WIND  BLOWS  455 

what  I  want :  you  know  he  is  generous  enough  ;  and  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  seeing  you  in  a  black  satin.  Get  it 
soon,  and  let  it  be  made  by  a  dressmaker  of  my  recommend- 
ing ;  let  me  choose  the  pattern.  You  always  want  to 
disguise  yourself  like  a  grandmother :  you  would  persuade 
one  that  you  are  old  and  ugly,  —not  at  all  !  On  the  con- 
trary, when  well  dressed  and  cheerful,  you  are  very  comely 
indeed.  Your  smile  is  so  pleasant,  your  teeth  are  so  white, 
your  hair  is  still  such  a  pretty  light  colour.  And  then  you 
speak  like  a  young  lady,  with  such  a  clear,  fine  tone,  and 
you  sing  better  than  any  young  lady  I  ever  heard.  Why 
do  you  wear  such  dresses  and  bonnets,  mamma,  such  as 
nobody  else  ever  wears  ? ' 

'  Does  it  annoy  you,  Caroline  ? ' 

'  Very  much :  it  vexes  me  even.  People  say  you  are 
miserly ;  and  yet  you  are  not,  for  you  give  liberally  to  the 
poor  and  to  religious  societies :  though  your  gifts  are 
conveyed  so  secretly  and  quietly,  that  they  are  known  to 
few  except  the  receivers.  But  I  will  be  your  maid  myself : 
when  I  get  a  little  stronger  I  will  set  to  work,  and  you  must 
be  good,  mamma,  and  do  as  I  bid  you.' 

And  Caroline,  sitting  near  her  mother,  re-arranged  her 
muslin  handkerchief,  and  re-smoothed  her  hair. 

'  My  own  mamma,'  then  she  went  on,  as  if  pleasing 
herself  with  the  thought  of  their  relationship,  '  who  belongs 
to  me,  and  to  whom  I  belong !  I  am  a  rich  girl  now  :  I 
have  something  I  can  love  well,  and  not  be  afraid  of  loving. 
Mamma,  who  gave  you  this  little  brooch?  Let  me  unpin 
it  and  look  at  it.' 

Mrs.  Pryor,  who  usually  shrank  from  meddling  fingers 
and  near  approach,  allowed  the  licence  complacently. 

'  Did  papa  give  you  this,  mamma?  ' 

'  My  sister  gave  it  me — my  only  sister,  Gary.  Would 
that  your  aunt  Caroline  had  lived  to  see  her  niece ! ' 

'Have  you  nothing  of  papa's?— no  trinket,  no  gift 
of  his  ?  ' 

'  I  have  one  thing.' 


456  SHIELEY 

'  That  you  prize  ? ' 

'  That  I  prize.' 

1  Valuable  and  pretty  ?  ' 

'  Invaluable  and  sweet  to  me.' 

'  Show  it,  mamma.     Is  it  here  or  at  Fieldhead  ? ' 

'  It  is  talking  to  me  now,-  leaning  on  me :  its  arms  are 
round  me." 

'  Ah,  mamma  !  you  mean  your  teasing  daughter,  who 
will  never  let  you  alone  ;  who,  when  you  go  into  your  room, 
cannot  help  running  to  seek  for  you ;  who  follows  you 
up-stairs  and  down,  like  a  dog.' 

'  Whose  features  still  give  me  such  a  strange  thrill  some- 
times. I  half  fear  your  fair  looks  yet,  child.' 

'  You  don't ;  you  can't.  Mamma,  I  am  sorry  papa  was 
not  good :  I  do  so  wish  he  had  been.  Wickedness  spoils 
and  poisons  all  pleasant  things  :  it  kills  love.  If  you  and  I 
thought  each  other  wicked,  we  could  not  love  each  other, 
could  we  ? ' 

'  And  if  we  could  not  brust  each  other,  Gary  ?  ' 

1  How  miserable  we  should  be  !  Mother,  before  I  knew 
you,  I  had  an  apprehension  that  you  were  not  good,  that  I 
could  not  esteem  you  :  that  dread  damped  my  wish  to  see 
you  ;  and  now  my  heart  is  elate  because  I  find  you  perfect, 
—  almost  ;  kind,  clever,  nice.  Your  sole  fault  is  that  you 
are  old-fashioned,  and  of  that  I  shall  cure  you.  Mamma, 
put  your  work  down  :  read  to  me.  I  like  your  southern 
accent :  it  is  so  pure,  so  soft.  It  has  no  rugged  burr,  no  nasal 
twang,  such  as  almost  every  one's  voice  here  in  the  north 
has.  My  uncle  and  Mr.  Hall  say  that  you  are  a  fine  reader, 
mamma.  Mr.  Hall  said  he  never  heard  any  lady  read  with 
such  propriety  of  expression,  or  purity  of  accent.' 

'  I  wish  I  could  reciprocate  the  compliment,  Gary ;  but 
really,  the  first  time  I  heard  your  truly  excellent  friend  read 
and  preach,  I  could  not  understand  his  broad,  northern 
tongue.' 

'  Could  you  understand  me,  mamma?  Did  I  seem  to 
speak  roughly  ? ' 


THE   WEST  WIND  BLOWS  457 

'  No :  I  almost  wished  you  had,  as  I  wished  you  had 
looked  unpolished.  Your  father,  Caroline,  naturally  spoke 
well ;  quite  otherwise  than  your  worthy  uncle :  correctly, 
gently,  smoothly.  You  inherit  the  gift.' 

'  Poor  papa  I  When  he  was  so  agreeable,  why  was  he 
not  good  ? ' 

'Why,  he  was  as  he  was — and,  happily,  of  that  you, 
child,  can  form  no  conception — I  cannot  tell  :  it  is  a  deep 
mystery.  The  key  is  in  the  hands  of  his  Maker :  there  I 
leave  it.' 

'  Mamma,  you  will  keep  stitching,  stitching  away :  put 
down  the  sewing ;  I  am  an  enemy  to  it.  It  cumbers  your 
lap,  and  I  want  it  for  my  head  :  it  engages  your  eyes,  and  I 
want  them  for  a  book.  Here  is  your  favourite — Cowper.' 

These  importunities  were  the  mother's  pleasure.  If 
ever  she  delayed  compliance,  it  was  only  to  hear  them 
repeated,  and  to  enjoy  her  child's  soft,  half-playful,  half- 
petulant  urgency.  And  then,  when  she  yielded,  Caroline 
would  say,  archly, — '  You  will  spoil  me,  mamma.  I  always 
thought  I  should  like  to  be  spoiled,  and  I  find  it  very 
sweet.' 

So  did  Mrs.  Pryor. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

OLD   COPY-BOOKS 

BY  the  time  the  Fieldhead  party  returned  to  Briarfield, 
Caroline  was  nearly  well.  Miss  Keeldar,  who  had  received 
news  by  post  of  her  fz'iend's  convalescence,  hardly  suffered 
an  hour  to  elapse  between  her  arrival  at  home  and  her  first 
call  at  the  Rectory. 

A  shower  of  rain  was  falling  gently,  yet  fast,  on  the  late 
flowers  and  russet  autumn  shrubs,  when  the  garden-wicket 
was  heard  to  swing  open,  and  Shirley's  well-known  form 
passed  the  window.  On  her  entrance,  her  feelings  were 
evinced  in  her  own  peculiar  fashion.  When  deeply  moved, 
by  serious  fears  or  joys,  she  was  not  garrulous.  The  strong 
emotion  was  rarely  suffered  to  influence  her  tongue  ;  and 
even  her  eye  refused  it  more  than  a  furtive  and  fitful 
conquest.  She  took  Caroline  in  her  arms,  gave  her  one 
look,  one  kiss,  then  said — '  You  are  better.' 

And  a  minute  after — '  I  see  you  are  safe  now,  but  take 
care.  God  grant  your  health  may  be  called  on  to  sustain 
no  more  shocks  ! ' 

She  proceeded  to  talk  fluently  about  the  journey.  In 
the  midst  of  vivacious  discourse,  her  eye  still  wandered  to 
Caroline  :  there  spoke  in  its  light  a  deep  solicitude,  some 
trouble,  and  some  amaze. 

'  She  may  be  better,'  it  said  ;  '  but  how  weak  she  still  is ! 
What  peril  she  has  come  through  !  ' 

Suddenly  her  glance  reverted  to  Mrs.  Pryor  :  it  pierced 
her  through. 

'  When  will  my  governess  return  to  me  ?  '  she  asked. 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  459 

'  May  I  tell  her  all  ? '  demanded  Caroline  of  her  mother. 
Leave  being  signified  by  a  gesture,  Shirley  was  presently 
enlightened  on  what  had  happened  in  her  absence. 

'  Very  good !  '  was  the  cool  comment.  '  Very  good  !  But 
it  is  no  news  to  me.' 

'  What !     Did  you  know  ? ' 

'  I  guessed  long  since  the  whole  business.  I  have  heard 
somewhat  of  Mrs.  Pryor's  history — not  from  herself,  but 
from  others.  With  every  detail  of  Mr.  James  Helstone's 
career  and  character  I  was  acquainted  :  an  afternoon's  sitting 
and  conversation  with  Miss  Mann  had  rendered  me  familiar 
therewith  :  also  he  is  one  of  Mrs.  Yorke's  warning-examples 
— one  of  the  blood-red  lights  she  hangs  out  to  scare  young 
ladies  from  matrimony.  I  believe  I  should  have  been  scep- 
tical about  the  truth  of  the  portrait  traced  by  such  fingers — 
both  these  ladies  take  a  dark  pleasure  in  offering  to  view  the 
dark  side  of  life — but  I  questioned  Mr.  Yorke  on  the  subject, 
and  he  said — "  Shirley,  my  woman,  if  you  want  to  know 
aught  about  yond'  James  Helstone,  I  can  only  say  he  was  a 
man-tiger.  He  was  handsome,  dissolute,  soft,  treacherous, 
courteous,  cruel —  Don't  cry,  Gary  ;  we'll  say  no  more 

about  it.' 

'  I  am  not  crying,  Shirley;  or  if  I  am,  it  is  nothing — go 
on  :  you  are  no  friend  if  you  withhold  from  me  the  truth  :  I 
hate  that  false  plan  of  disguising,  mutilating  the  truth.' 

'  Fortunately,  I  have  said  pretty  nearly  all  that  I  have  to 
pay,  except  that  your  uncle  himself  confirmed  Mr.  Yorke's 
words :  for  he  too  scorns  a  lie,  and  deals  in  none  of  those 
conventional  subterfuges  that  are  shabbier  than  lies.' 

4  But  papa  is  dead  :  they  should  let  him  alone  now.' 

'  They  should — and  we  will  let  him  alone.  Cry  away, 
Cary,  it  will  do  you  good  :  it  is  wrong  to  check  natural  tears  ; 
besides,  I  choose  to  please  myself  by  sharing  an  idea  that  at 
this  moment  beams  in  your  mother's  eye  while  she  looks  at 
you  :  every  drop  blots  out  a  sin.  Weep — your  tears  have  the 
virtue  which  the  rivers  of  Damascus  lacked  :  like  Jordan,  they 
can  cleanse  a  leprous  memory.' 


460  SHIRLEY 

'  Madam,'  she  continued,  addressing  Mrs.  Pryor, '  did  you 
think  I  could  be  daily  in  the  habit  of  seeing  you  and  your 
daughter  together — marking  your  marvellous  similarity  in 
many  points — observing,  pardon  me — your  irrepressible 
emotions  in  the  presence,  and  still  more  in  the  absence  of 
your  child,  and  not  form  my  own  conjectures  ?  I  formed 
them,  and  they  are  literally  correct.  I  shall  begin  to  think 
myself  shrewd.' 

'  And  you  said  nothing  ? '  observed  Caroline,  who  soon 
regained  the  quiet  control  of  her  feelings. 

'  Nothing.  I  had  no  warrant  to  breathe  a  word  on  the 
subject.  My  business  it  was  not :  I  abstained  from  making 
it  such.' 

'  You  guessed  so  deep  a  secret,  and  did  not  hint  that  you 
guessed  it  ? ' 

'Is  that  so  difficult?' 

1  It  is  not  like  you.' 

'  How  do  you  know  ?  ' 

I  You  are  not  reserved.     You  are  frankly  communicative.' 

I 1  may  be  communicative,  yet  know  where  to  stop.     In 
showing  my  treasure,  I  may  withhold  a  gem  or  two — a  curious, 
unbought,  graven  stone— an  amulet,  of  whose  mystic  glitter 
I  rarely  permit  even  myself  a  glimpse.     Good-day.' 

Caroline  thus  seemed  to  get  a  view  of  Shirley's  character 
under  a  novel  aspect.  Erelong,  the  prospect  was  renewed  : 
it  opened  upon  her. 

No  sooner  had  she  regained  sufficient  strength  to  bear  a 
change  of  scene — the  excitement  of  a  little  society— than  Miss 
Keeldar  sued  daily  for  her  presence  at  Fieldhead.  Whether 
Shirley  had  become  wearied  of  her  honoured  relatives  is  not 
known  :  she  did  not  say  she  was  ;  but  she  claimedand  retained 
Caroline  with  an  eagerness  which  proved  that  an  addition  to 
that  worshipful  company  was  not  unwelcome. 

The  Sympsons  were  Church  people  :  of  course,  the  Rec- 
tor's niece  was  received  by  them  with  courtesy.  Mr.  Sympson 
proved  to  be  a  man  of  spotless  respectability,  worrying  temper, 
pious  principles,  and  worldly  views  ;  his  lady  was  a  very 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  461 

good  woman,  patient,  kind,  well-bred.  She  had  been  brought 
up  on  a  narrow  system  of  views— starved  on  a  few  prejudices  : 
a  mere  handful  of  bitter  herbs  ;  a  few  preferences,  soaked  till 
their  natural  flavour  was  extracted,  and  with  no  seasoning 
added  in  the  cooking  ;  some  excellent  principles,  made  up  in 
a  stiff  raised-crust  of  bigotry,  difficult  to  digest :  far  too  sub- 
missive was  she  to  complain  of  this  diet,  or  to  ask  for  a  crumb 
beyond  it. 

The  daughters  were  an  example  to  their  sex.  They  were 
tall,  with  a  Roman  nose  a-piece.  They  had  been  educated 
faultlessly.  All  they  did  was  well  done.  History,  and  the 
most  solid  books,  had  cultivated  their  minds.  Principles  and 
opinions  they  possessed  which  could  not  be  mended.  More 
exactly-regulated  lives,  feelings,  manners,  habits,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find  anywhere.  They  knew  by  heart 
a  certain  young-ladies'-school-roora  code  of  laws  on  language, 
demeanour,  &c.;  themselves  never  deviated  from  its  curious 
little  pragmatical  provisions  ;  and  they  regarded  with  secret, 
whispered  horror,  all  deviations  in  others.  The  Abomination 
of  Desolation  was  no  mystery  to  them  :  they  had  discovered 
that  unutterable  Thing  in  the  characteristic  others  call  Origi- 
nality. Quick  were  they  to  recognise  the  signs  of  this  evil  ; 
and  wherever  they  saw  its  trace — whether  in  look,  word,  or 
deed ;  whether  they  read  it  in  the  fresh,  vigorous  style  of  a 
book,  or  listened  to  it  in  interesting,  unhackneyed,  pure,  ex- 
pressive language — they  shuddered — they  recoiled  :  danger 
was  above  their  heads — peril  about  their  steps.  What  was 
this  strange  thing?  Being  unintelligible,  it  must  be  bad. 
Let  it  be  denounced  and  chained  up. 

Henry  Sympson — the  only  son,  and  youngest  child  of  the 
family — was  a  boy  of  fifteen.  He  generally  kept  with  hia 
tutor  ;  when  he  left  him,  he  sought  his  cousin  Shirley.  This 
boy  differed  from  his  sisters ;  he  was  little,  lame,  and  pale  ; 
his  large  eyes  shone  somewhat  languidly  in  a  wan  orbit :  they 
were,  indeed,  usually  rather  dim — but  they  were  capable  of 
illumination  :  at  times,  they  could  not  only  shine,  but  blaze  : 
inward  emotiou  qould  likewise  give  colour  to  his  cheek  and 


462  SHIRLEY 

decision  to  his  crippled  movements.  Henry's  mother  loved 
him  ;  she  thought  his  peculiarities  were  a  mark  of  election  : 
he  was  not  like  other  children,  she  allowed  ;  she  believed  him 
regenerate — a  new  Samuel — called  of  God  from  his  birth  : 
he  was  to  be  a  clergyman.  Mr.  and  the  Misses  Sympson, 
not  understanding  the  youth,  let  him  much  alone.  Shirley 
made  him  her  pet ;  and  he  made  Shirley  his  playmate. 

In  the  midst  of  this  family-circle — or  rather  outside  it — 
moved  the  tutor — the  satellite. 

Yes  :  Louis  Moore  was  a  satellite  of  the  house  of  Symp- 
son :  connected,  yet  apart ;  ever  attendant— ever  distant. 
Each  member  of  that  correct  family  treated  him  with  proper 
dignity.  The  father  was  austerely  civil,  sometimes  irritable ; 
the  mother,  being  a  kind  woman,  was  attentive,  but  formal ; 
the  daughters  saw  in  him  an  abstraction,  not  a  man.  It 
seemed,  by  their  manner,  that  their  brother's  tutor  did  not 
live  for  them.  They  were  learned :  so  was  he — but  not  for  them. 
They  were  accomplished  :  he  had  talents  too,  imperceptible 
to  their  senses.  The  most  spirited  sketch  from  his  fingers 
was  a  blank  to  their  eyes  ;  the  most  original  observation  from 
his  lips  fell  unheard  on  their  ears.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
propriety  of  their  behaviour. 

I  should  have  said,  nothing  could  have  equalled  it ;  but  I 
remember  a  fact  which  strangely  astonished  Caroline  Hel- 
stone.  It  was — to  discover  that  her  cousin  had  absolutely 
no  sympathizing  friend  at  Fieldhead  :  that  to  Miss  Keeldar 
he  was  as  much  a  mere  teacher,  as  little  a  gentleman,  as  little 
a  man,  as  to  the  estimable  Misses  Sympson. 

What  had  befallen  the  kind-hearted  Shirley  that  she 
should  be  so  indifferent  to  the  dreary  position  of  a  fellow- 
creature  thus  isolate.!  under  her  roof  ?  She  was  not,  perhaps, 
haughty  to  him,  but  she  never  noticed  him  :  she  let  him  alone. 
He  came  and  went,  spoke  or  was  silent,  and  she  rarely 
recognised  his  existence. 

As  to  Louis  Moore  himself,  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  used 
to  this  life,  and  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  bear  it  for  a 
time.  His  faculties  seemed  walled  up  in  him,  and  were 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  463 

Unmurmuring  in  their  captivity.  He  never  laughed  ;  he 
seldom  smiled,  he  was  uncomplaining.  He  fulfilled  the 
round  of  his  duties  scrupulously.  His  pupil  loved  him  ;  he 
asked  nothing  more  than  civility  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 
It  even  appeared  that  he  would  accept  nothing  more  :  in  that 
abode  at  least ;  for  when  his  cousin  Caroline  made  gentle 
overtures  of  friendship,  he  did  not  encourage  them ;  he 
rather  avoided  than  sought  her.  One  living  thing  alone, 
besides  his  pale,  crippled  scholar,  he  fondled  in  the  house,  and 
that  was  the  ruffianly  Tartar  ;  who,  sullen  and  impracticable 
to  others,  acquired  a  singular  partiality  for  him  :  a  partiality 
so  marked  that  sometimes,  when  Moore,  summoned  to  a  meal, 
entered  the  room  and  sat  down  unwelcomed,  Tartar  would 
rise  from  his  lair  at  Shirley's  feet,  and  betake  himself  to  the 
taciturn  tutor.  Once — but  once — she  noticed  the  desertion  ; 
and  holding  out  her  white  hand,  and  speaking  softly,  tried  to 
coax  him  back.  Tartar  looked,  slavered,  and  sighed,  as  his 
manner  was,  but  yet  disregarded  the  invitation,  and  coolly 
settled  himself  on  his  haunches  at  Louis  Moore's  side.  That 
gentleman  drew  the  dog's  big,  black-muzzled  head  on  to  his 
knee,  patted  him,  and  smiled  one  little  smile  to  himself. 

An  acute  observer  might  have  remarked,  in  the  course  of 
the  same  evening,  that  after  Tartar  had  resumed  his  allegi- 
ance to  Shirley,  and  was  once  more  couched  near  her  foot- 
stool, the  audacious  tutor  by  one  word  and  gesture  fascinated 
him  again.  He  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  word  ;  he  started 
erect  at  the  gesture,  and  came,  with  head  lovingly  depressed, 
to  receive  the  expected  caress :  as  it  was  given,  the  signi- 
ficant smile  again  rippled  across  Moore's  quiet  face. 


'  Shirley,'  said  Caroline,  one  day,  as  they  two  were 
sitting  alone  in  the  summer-house,  '  did  you  know  th.it  my 
cousin  Louis  was  tutor  in  your  uncle's  family  before  the 
Sympsons  came  down  here  ?  ' 

Shirley's  reply  was  not  so  prompt  as  her  responses  usually 


464  SHIRLEY 

were,  but  at  last  she  answered,  '  Yes, — of  course  :  I  knew  it 
well.' 

'I  thought  you  must  have  been  aware  of  the  circum- 
stance.' 

'  Well !  what  then  ? ' 

'  It  puzzles  me  to  guess  how  it  chanced  that  you  never 
mentioned  it  to  me.' 

1  Why  should  it  puzzle  you  ? ' 

'  It  seems  odd.  I  cannot  account  for  it.  You  talk  a 
great  deal, — you  talk  freely.  How  was  that  circumstance 
never  touched  on  ? ' 

'  Because  it  never  was/  and  Shirley  laughed. 

'  You  are  a  singular  being ! '  observed  her  friend :  '  I 
thought  I  knew  you  quite  well :  I  begin  to  find  myself  mis- 
taken. You  were  silent  as  the  grave  about  Mrs.  Pryor  ; 
and  now,  again,  here  is  another  secret.  But  why  you  made 
it  a  secret  is  the  mystery  to  me.' 

'  I  never  made  it  a  secret :  I  had  no  reason  for  so  doing. 
If  you  had  asked  me  who  Henry's  tutor  was,  I  would  have 
told  you  :  besides,  I  thought  you  knew.' 

'  I  am  puzzled  about  more  things  than  one  in  this  matter  : 
you  don't  like  poor  Louis, — why?  Are  you  impatient  at 
what  you  perhaps  consider  his  servile  position?  Do 
you  wish  that  Robert's  brother  were  more  highly  placed  ? ' 

'  Robert's  brother,  indeed  ! '  was  the  exclamation,  uttered 
in  a  tone  like  the  accents  of  scorn  ;  and,  with  a  movement  of 
proud  impatience,  Shirley  snatched  a  rose  from  a  branch 
peeping  through  the  open  lattice. 

'  Yes,'  repeated  Caroline,  with  mild  firmness  ;  '  Robert's 
brother.  He  is  thus  closely  related  to  Gerard  Moore  of  the 
Hollow,  though  nature  has  not  given  him  features  so 
handsome,  or  an  air  so  noble  as  his  kinsman  ;  but  his 
blood  is  as  good,  and  he  is  as  much  a  gentleman,  were  he 
free.' 

'  Wise,  humble,  pious  Caroline  !  '  exclaimed  Shirley, 
ironically.  '  Men  and  angels,  hear  her  !  We  should  not 
despise  plain  features,  nor  a  laborious  yet  honest  occupation, 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  465 

should  we?  Look  at  the  subject  of  your  panegyric, — he  is 
there  in  the  garden,'  she  continued,  pointing  through  an 
aperture  in  the  clustering  creepers  ;  and  by  that  aperture 
Louis  Moore  was  visible,  coming  slowly  down  the  walk. 

'  He  is  not  ugly,  Shirley,'  pleaded  Caroline  ;  '  he  is  not 
ignoble  ;  he  is  sad  :  silence  seals  his  mind ;  but  I  believe 
him  to  be  intelligent,  and  be  certain,  if  he  had  not  something 
very  commendable  in  his  disposition,  Mr.  Hall  would  never 
seek  his  society  as  he  does.' 

Shirley  laughed  :  she  laughed  again  ;  each  time  with  a 
slightly  sarcastic  sound. 

'  Well,  well,'  was  her  comment.  '  On  the  plea  of  the 
man  being  Cyril  Hall's  friend  and  Eobert  Moore's  brother, 
we'll  just  tolerate  his  existence — won't  we,  Gary?  You 
believe  him  to  be  intelligent,  do  you  ?  Not  quite  an  idiot — 
eh  ?  Something  commendable  in  his  disposition  !  id  est, 
not  an  absolute  ruffian.  Good  !  Your  representations  have 
weight  with  me  ;  and  to  prove  that  they  have,  should  he  come 
this  way  I  will  speak  to  him.' 

He  approached  the  summer-house :  unconscious  that  it 
was  tenanted,  he  sat  down  on  the  step.  Tartar,  now  his 
customary  companion,  had  followed  him,  and  he  crouched 
across  his  feet. 

'  Old  boy  ! '  said  Louis,  pulling  his  tawny  ear,  or  rather 
the  mutilated  remains  of  that  organ,  torn  and  chewed  in  a 
hundred  battles,  '  the  autumn  sun  shines  as  pleasantly  on  us 
as  on  the  fairest  and  richest.  This  garden  is  none  of  ours, 
but  we  enjoy  its  greenness  and  perfume,  don't  we?  ' 

He  sat  silent,  still  caressing  Tartar,  who  slobbered  with 
exceeding  affection.  A  faint  twittering  commenced  among 
the  trees  round :  something  fluttered  down  as  light  as 
leaves  :  they  were  little  birds,  which,  lighting  on  the  sward 
at  shy  distance,  hopped  as  if  expectant. 

'  The  small  brown  elves  actually  remember  that  I  fed 
them  the  other  day,'  again  soliloquized  Louis.  '  They  want 
some  more  biscuit  :  to-day,  I  forgot  to  save  a  fragment. 
Eager  little  sprites,  I  have  not  a  crumb  for  you.' 


466  SHIRLEY 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  it  out  empty. 

'  A  want  easily  supplied,'  whispered  the  listening  Miss 
Keeldar. 

She  took  from  her  reticule  a  morsel  of  sweet-cake  :  for 
that  repository  was  never  destitute  of  something  available  to 
throw  to  the  chickens,  young  ducks,  or  sparrows ;  she 
crumbled  it,  and  bending  over  his  shoulder,  put  the  crumbs 
into  his  hand. 

'  There,'  said  she  ;  '  there  is  a  Providence  for  the  impro- 
vident.' 

'  This  September  afternoon  is  pleasant,'  observed  Louis 
Moore,  as — not  at  all  discomposed — he  calmly  cast  the 
crumbs  on  to  the  grass. 

'  Even  for  you  ? ' 

1  As  pleasant  for  me  as  for  any  monarch.' 

'  You  take  a  sort  of  harsh,  solitary  triumph  in  drawing 
pleasure  out  of  the  elements,  and  the  inanimate  and  lower 
animate  creation.' 

'  Solitary,  but  not  harsh.  With  animals  I  feel  I  am 
Adam's  son  ;  the  heir  of  him  to  whom  dominion  was  given 
over  "  every  living  thing  that  moveth  upon  the  earth." 
Your  dog  likes  and  follows  me ;  when  I  go  into  that  yard, 
the  pigeons  from  your  dove-cot  flutter  at  my  feet;  your 
mare  in  the  stable  knows  me  as  well  as  it  knows  you,  and 
obeys  me  better.' 

'  And  my  roses  smell  sweet  to  you,  and  my  trees  give  you 
shade.' 

'  And,'  continued  Louis,  '  no  caprice  can  withdraw  these 
pleasures  from  me  :  they  are  mine.' 

He  walked  off:  Tartar  followed  him,  as  if  in  duty  and 
affection  bound,  and  Shirley  remained  standing  on  the 
summer-house  step.  Caroline  saw  her  face  as  she  looked 
after  the  rude  tutor  :  it  was  pale,  as  if  her  pride  bled 
inwardly. 

'  You  see,'  remarked  Caroline,  apologetically, '  his  feelings 
are  so  often  hurt,  it  makes  him  morose.' 

'  You  see,'  retorted  Shirley,  with  ire,  '  he  is  a  topic  on 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  467 

which  you  and  I  shall  quarrel  if  we  discuss  it  often  ;  so  drop 
it  henceforward  and  for  ever.' 

'  I  suppose  he  has  more  than  once  behaved  in  this  way,' 
thought  Caroline  to  herself ;  '  and  that  renders  Shirley  so 
distant  to  him  :  yet  I  wonder  she  cannot  make  allowance 
for  character  and  circumstances :  I  wonder  the  general 
modesty,  manliness,  sincerity  of  his  nature,  do  not  plead 
with  her  in  his  behalf.  She  is  not  often  so  inconsiderate — 
so  irritable.' 


The  verbal  testimony  of  two  friends  of  Caroline's  to  her 
cousin's  character  augmented  her  favourable  opinion  of  him. 
William  Farren,  whose  cottage  he  had  visited  in  company 
with  Mr.  Hall,  pronounced  him  a  '  real  gentleman : '  there 
was  not  such  another  in  Briarfield  :  he — William — '  could 
do  aught  for  that  man.  And  then  to  see  how  t'  bairns  liked 
him,  and  how  t'  wife  took  to  him  first  minute  she  saw  him : 
he  never  went  into  a  house  but  t'  childer  wor  about  him 
directly :  them  little  things  wor  like  as  if  they'd  a  keener 
sense  nor  grown-up  folks  i'  finding  out  folk's  natures.' 

Mr.  Hall,  in  answer  to  a  question  of  Miss  Helstone's,  as 
to  what  he  thought  of  Louis  Moore,  replied  promptly,  that 
he  was  the  best  fellow  he  had  met  with  since  he  left 
Cambridge. 

'  But  he  is  so  grave,'  objected  Caroline. 

'  Grave  !  The  finest  company  in  the  world !  Full  of 
odd,  quiet,  out-of-the-way  humour.  Never  enjoyed  an 
excursion  so  much  in  my  life  as  the  one  I  took  with  him  to 
the  Lakes.  His  understanding  and  tastes  are  so  superior,  it 
does  a  man  good  to  be  within  their  influence  ;  and  as  to 
his  temper  and  nature,  I  call  them  fine.' 

'  At  Fieldhead  he  looks  gloomy,  and,  I  believe,  has  the 
character  of  being  misanthropical.' 

'  Oh  !  I  fancy  he  is  rather  out  of  place  there — in  a  false 
position.  The  Sympsons  are  most  estimable  people,  but 
not  the  folks  to  comprehend  him  :  they  think  a  great  deal 


468  SHIELEY 

about  form  and  ceremony,  which  are  quite  out  of  Louis's 
way.' 

1 1  don't  think  Miss  Keeldar  likes  him.' 

1  She  doesn't  know  him — she  doesn't  know  him  ;  other- 
wise, she  has  sense  enough  to  do  justice  to  his  merits.' 

'  Well,  I  suppose  she  doesn't  know  him,'  mused  Caroline 
to  herself,  and  by  this  hypothesis  she  endeavoured  to 
account  for  what  seemed  else  unaccountable.  But  such 
simple  solution  of  the  difficulty  was  not  left  her  long :  she 
was  obliged  to  refuse  Miss  Keeldar  even  this  negative  excuse 
for  her  prejudice. 

One  day  she  chanced  to  be  in  the  school-room  with 
Henry  Sympson,  whose  amiable  and  affectionate  disposition 
had  quickly  recommended  him  to  her  regard.  The  boy  was 
busied  about  some  mechanical  contrivance  :  his  lameness 
made  him  fond  of  sedentary  occupation :  he  began  to 
ransack  his  tutor's  desk  for  a  piece  of  wax,  or  twine, 
necessary  to  his  work.  Moore  happened  to  be  absent.  Mr. 
Hall,  indeed,  had  called  for  him  to  take  a  long  walk.  Henry 
could  not  immediately  find  the  object  of  his  search  :  he 
rummaged  compartment  after  compartment ;  and,  at  last 
opening  an  inner  drawer,  he  came  upon — not  a  ball  of  cord, 
or  a  lump  of  bees'-wax — but  a  little  bundle  of  small  marole- 
coloured  cahiers,  tied  with  tape.  Henry  looked  at  them. 

'  What  rubbish  Mr.  Moore  stores  up  in  his  desk  ! '  he 
said  :  '  I  hope  he  won't  keep  my  old  exercises  so  carefully.' 

'  What  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Old  copy-books.' 

He  threw  the  bundle  to  Caroline.  The  packet  looked  so 
neat  externally,  her  curiosity  was  excited  to  see  its  contents. 
If  they  are  only  copy-books,  I  suppose  I  may  open 
them  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  yes  ;  quite  freely.  Mr.  Moore's  desk  is  half  mine 
—for  he  lets  me  keep  all  sorts  of  things  in  it— and  I  give 
you  leave.' 

On  scrutiny  they  proved  to  be  French  compositions, 
written  in  a  hand  peculiar  but  compact,  and  exquisitely 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  469 

clean  and  clear.  The  writing  was  recognisable :  she 
scarcely  needed  the  further  evidence  of  the  name  signed  at 
the  close  of  each  theme,  to  tell  her  whose  they  were.  Yet 
that  name  astonished  her :  '  Shirley  Keeldar,  Sympson 

Grove, shire '  (a  southern  county),  and  a  date  four 

years  back. 

She  tied  up  the  packet,  and  held  it  in  her  hand,  medi- 
tating over  it.  She  half  felt  as  if,  in  opening  it,  she  had 
violated  a  confidence. 

'  They  are  Shirley's,  you  see,'  said  Henry,  carelessly. 

'  Did  you  give  them  to  Mr.  Moore  ?  She  wrote  them 
with  Mrs.  Pryor,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

I  She  wrote  them  in  my  school-room  at  Sympson  Grove, 
when   she   lived   with  us    there.      Mr.    Moore   taught   her 
French :  it  is  his  native  language.' 

I 1  know  ....  Was  she  a  good  pupil,  Henry  ? ' 

1  She  was  a  wild,  laughing  thing,  but  pleasant  to  have 
in  the  room  :  she  made  lesson-time  charming.  She  learned 
fast — you  could  hardly  tell  when  or  how.  French  was 
nothing  to  her :  she  spoke  it  quick — quick ;  as  quick  as 
Mr.  Moore  himself.' 

'  Was  she  obedient  ?     Did  she  give  trouble  ?  ' 

'  She  gave  plenty  of  trouble  in  a  way  :  she  was  giddy, 
but  I  liked  her.  I'm  desperately  fond  of  Shirley.' 

'  Desperately  fond — you  small  simpleton  !  You  don't 
know  what  you  say.' 

'  I  am  desperately  fond  of  her :  she  is  the  light  of  my 
eyes  :  I  said  so  to  Mr.  Moore  last  night.' 

'  He  would  reprove  you  for  speaking  with  exaggeration.' 

'  He  didn't.  He  never  reproves  and  reproves,  as  girls' 
governesses  do.  He  was  reading,  and  he  only  smiled  into 
his  book,  and  said  that  if  Miss  Keeldar  was  no  more  than 
that,  she  was  less  than  he  took  her  to  be  ;  for  I  was  but  a 
dim-eyed,  short-sighted  little  chap.  I'm  afraid  I  am  a  poor 
unfortunate,  Miss  Caroline  Helstone.  1  am  a  cripple,  you 
know.' 

'  Never  mind,  Henry,  you  are  a  very  nice  little  fellow ; 


470  SHIKLEY 

and  if  God  has  not  given  you  health  and  strength,  He  has 
given  you  a  good  disposition,  and  an  excellent  heart  and 
brain.' 

'  I  shall  be  despised.  I  sometimes  think  both  Shirley 
and  you  despise  me." 

'  Listen,  Henry.  Generally,  I  don't  like  school-boys  :  I 
have  a  great  horror  of  them.  They  seem  to  me  little 
ruffians,  who  take  an  unnatural  delight  in  killing  and 
tormenting  birds,  and  insects,  and  kittens,  and  whatever  is 
weaker  than  themselves  ;  but  you  are  so  different,  I  am 
quite  fond  of  you.  You  have  almost  as  much  sense  as  a 
man  (far  more,  God  wot,'  she  muttered  to  herself,  '  than 
many  men) ;  you  are  fond  of  reading,  and  you  can  talk 
sensibly  about  what  you  read.' 

'  I  am  fond  of  reading.  I  know  I  have  sense,  and  I  know 
I  have  feeling.' 

Miss  Keeldar  here  entered. 

'  Henry,'  she  said,  '  I  have  brought  your  lunch  here :  I 
shall  prepare  it  for  you  myself.' 

She  placed  on  the  table  a  glass  of  new  milk,  a  plate  of 
something  which  looked  not  unlike  leather,  and  a  utensil 
which  resembled  a  toasting-fork. 

'  What  are  you  two  about,'  she  continued,  '  ransacking 
Mr.  Moore's  desk  ? ' 

'  Looking  at  your  old  copy-books,'  returned  Caroline. 

'  My  old  copy-books  ? ' 

1  French  exercise-books.  Look  here  !  They  must  be  held 
precious  :  they  are  kept  carefully.' 

She  showed  the  bundle.  Shirley  snatched  it  up  :  '  Did 
not  know  one  was  in  existence,'  she  said.  '  I  thought  the 
whole  lot  had  long  since  lit  the  kitchen-fire,  or  curled  the 
maid's  hair  at  Sympson  Grove.  What  made  you  keep  them, 
Henry  ? ' 

'  It  is  not  my  doing  :  I  should  not  have  thought  of  it : 
it  never  entered  my  head  to  suppose  copy-books  of  value. 
Mr.  Moore  put  them  by  in  the  inner  drawer  of  his  desk  : 
perhaps  he  forgot  them.' 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  471 

1  C'est  cela :  he  forgot  them,  no  doubt,'  echoed  Shirley. 
'  They  are  extremely  well  written,'  she  observed,  com- 
placently. 

'  What  a  giddy  girl  you  were,  Shirley,  in  those  days  !  I 
remember  you  so  well :  a  slim,  light  creature  whom,  though 
you  were  so  tall,  I  could  lift  off  the  floor.  I  see  you  with 
your  long,  countless  curls  on  your  shoulders,  and  your 
streaming  sash.  You  used  to  make  Mr.  Moore  lively,  that 
is,  at  first :  I  believe  you  grieved  him  after  a  while.' 

Shirley  turned  the  closely  written  pages  and  said 
nothing.  Presently  she  observed,  '  That  was  written  one 
winter  afternoon.  It  was  a  description  of  a  snow-scene.' 

'  I  remember,'  said  Henry ;  '  Mr.  Moore,  when  he  read 
it,  cried  "  Voila  le  Francais  gagn6 !  "  He  said  it  was  well 
done.  Afterwards,  you  made  him  draw,  in  sepia,  the  land- 
scape you  described.' 

'  You  have  not  forgotten  then,  Hal  ?  ' 

'  Not  at  all.  We  were  all  scolded  that  day  for  not 
coming  down  to  tea  when  called.  I  can  remember  my  tutor 
sitting  at  his  easel,  and  you  standing  behind  him,  holding 
the  candle,  and  watching  him  draw  the  snowy  cliff,  the 
pine,  the  deer  couched  under  it,  and  the  half-moon  hung 
above.' 

'  Where  are  his  drawings,  Henry  ?  Caroline  should  see 
them.' 

'  In  his  portfolio  :  but  it  is  padlocked  :  he  has  the  key.' 

'  Ask  him  for  it  when  he  comes  in.' 

'  You  should  ask  him,  Shirley ;  you  are  shy  of  him  now  : 
you  are  grown  a  proud  lady  to  him,  I  notice  that.' 

'  Shirley,  you  are  a  real  enigma,'  whispered  Caroline  in 
her  ear.  '  What  queer  discoveries  I  make  day  by  day 
now  !  I,  who  thought  I  had  your  confidence.  Inexplicable 
creature  !  even  this  boy  reproves  you.' 

'I  have  forgotten  "  Auld  Langsyne,"  you  see,  Harry,' 
said  Miss  Keeldar,  answering  young  Sympson,  and  not 
heeding  Caroline. 

'  Which    you    never   should    have    done.      You    don't 


472  SHIELEY 

deserve  to  be  a  man's  morning  star,  if  you  have  so  short 
a  memory.' 

'  A  man's  morning  star,  indeed  !  and  by  "  a  man  "  is 
meant  your  worshipful  self,  I  suppose  ?  Come,  drink  your 
new  milk  while  it  is  warm.' 

The  young  cripple  rose  and  limped  towards  the  fire ;  he 
had  left  his  crutch  near  the  mantel-piece. 

'  My  poor  lame  darling ! '  murmured  Shirley,  in  her 
softest  voice,  aiding  him. 

'  Whether  do  you  like  me  or  Mr.  Sam  Wynne  best, 
Shirley  ? '  inquired  the  boy,  as  she  settled  him  in  an  arm- 
chair. 

'  Oh,  Harry  !  Sam  Wynne  is  my  aversion  :  you  are  my 
pet.' 

'  Me  or  Mr.  Malone  ? ' 

'  You  again,  a  thousand  times.' 

1  Yet,  they  are  great  whiskered  fellows,  six  feet  high 
each.' 

'  Whereas,  as  long  as  you  live,  Harry,  you  will  never  be, 
anything  more  than  a  little  pale  lameter.' 

'  Yes,  I  know.' 

'  You  need  not  be  sorrowful.  Have  I  not  often  told, 
you  who  was  almost  as  little,  as  pale,  as  suffering  as  you, 
and  yet  potent  as  a  giant,  and  brave  as  a  lion  ?  ' 

'  Admiral  Horatio  ? ' 

1  Admiral  Horatio,  Viscount  Nelson,  and  Duke  of  Bronti ; 
great  at  heart  as  a  Titan ;  gallant  and  heroic  as  all  the 
world  and  age  of  chivalry  ;  leader  of  the  might  of  England  ; 
commander  of  her  strength  on  the  deep;  hurler  of  her 
thunder  over  the  flood.' 

'  A  great  man :  but  I  am  not  warlike,  Shirley :  and  yet 
my  mind  is  so  restless,  I  burn  day  and  night — for  what — I 
can  hardly  tell — to  be — to  do — to  suffer,  I  think.' 

1  Harry,  it  is  your  mind,  which  is  stronger  and  older 
than  your  frame,  that  troubles  you.  It  is  a  captive.  It  lies 
in  physical  bondage.  But  it  will  work  its  own  redemption 
yet.  Study  carefully,  not  only  books  but  the  world.  You 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  473 

love  nature  ;  love  her  without  fear.  Be  patient — wait  the 
course  of  time.  You  will  not  be  a  soldier  or  a  sailor, 
Henry  :  but,  if  you  live,  you  will  be — listen  to  my  prophecy 
— you  will  be  an  author — perhaps,  a  poet.' 

'  An  author  !  It  is  a  flash— a  flash  of  light  to  me !  I 
will — I  will  !  I'll  write  a  book  that  I  may  dedicate  it  to 
you.' 

'  You  will  write  it,  that  you  may  give  your  soul  its 
natural  release.  Bless  me !  what  am  I  saying  ?  more  than 
I  understand,  I  believe,  or  can  make  good.  Here,  Hal ; 
here  is  your  toasted  oat-cake — eat  and  live  !  ' 

'  Willingly !  '  here  cried  a  voice  outside  the  open 
window,  '  I  know  that  fragrance  of  meal  bread.  Miss 
Keeldar,  may  I  come  in  and  partake  ? ' 

'  Mr.  Hall '  (it  was  Mr.  Hall,  and  with  him  was  Louis 
Moore,  returned  from  their  walk),  '  there  is  a  proper 
luncheon  laid  out  in  the  dining-room,  and  there  are  proper 
people  seated  round  it  :  you  may  join  that  society  and  share 
that  fare  if  you  please ;  but  if  your  ill-regulated  tastes  lead 
you  to  prefer  ill-regulated  proceedings,  step  in  here,  and  do 
as  we  do.' 

'  I  approve  the  perfume,  and  therefore  shall  suffer  myself 
to  be  led  by  the  nose,'  returned  Mr.  Hall,  who  presently 
entered,  accompanied  by  Louis  Moore.  That  gentleman's 
eye  fell  on  his  desk,  pillaged. 

'  Burglars  !  '  said  he.     '  Henry,  you  merit  the  ferule.' 

'  Give  it  to  Shirley  and  Caroline — they  did  it,'  was  alleged 
with  more  attention  to  effect  than  truth. 

'  Traitor  and  false  witness  !  '  cried  both  the  girls.  '  We 
never  laid  hands  on  a  thing,  except  in  the  spirit  of  laudable 
inquiry.' 

'  Exactly  so,'  said  Moore,  with  his  rare  smile.  '  And 
what  have  you  ferreted  out,  in  your  "  spirit  of  laudable 
inquiry  "  ? ' 

He  perceived  the  inner  drawer  open. 

1  This  is  empty/  said  he.     '  Who  has  taken— 

'Here!    here!'    Caroline   hastened    to    say;    and    she 


474  SHIRLEY 

restored  the  little  packet  to  its  place.  He  shut  it  up ;  he 
locked  it  in  with  a  small  key  attached  to  his  watch-guard  ; 
he  restored  the  other  papers  to  order,  closed  the  repository, 
and  sat  down  without  further  remark. 

1 1  thought  you  would  have  scolded  much  more,  sir/ 
said  Henry.  '  The  girls  deserve  reprimand.' 

'  I  leave  them  to  their  own  consciences.' 

'It  accuses  them  of  crimes  intended  as  well  as  per- 
petrated, sir.  If  I  had  not  been  here,  they  would  have  treated 
your  portfolio  as  they  have  done  your  desk  ;  but  I  told 
them  it  was  padlocked.' 

'  And  will  you  have  lunch  with  us  ? '  here  interposed 
Shirley,  addressing  Moore,  and  desirous,  as  it  seemed,  to 
turn  the  conversation. 

'  Certainly,  if  I  may.' 

'  You  will  be  restricted  to  new  milk  and  Yorkshire  oat- 
cake.' 

'  Va — pour  le  lait  frais  ! '  said  Louis.  '  But  for  your  oat- 
cake  !  '  and  he  made  a  grimace. 

'  He  cannot  eat  it,'  said  Henry :  '  he  thinks  it  is  like 
bran,  raised  with  sour  yeast.' 

'  Come,  then,  by  special  dispensation,  we  will  allow  him 
a  few  cracknels  ;  but  nothing  less  homely.' 

The  hostess  rang  the  bell  and  gave  her  frugal  orders, 
which  were  presently  executed.  She  herself  measured  out 
the  milk  and  distributed  the  bread  round  the  cozy  circle 
now  enclosing  the  bright  little  school-room  fire.  She  then 
took  the  post  of  toaster-general  ;  and  kneeling  on  the  rug, 
fork  in  hand,  fulfilled  her  office  with  dexterity.  Mr.  Hall, 
who  relished  any  homely  innovation  on  ordinary  usages, 
and  to  whom  the  husky  oat-cake  was  from  custom  suave  as 
manna — seemed  in  his  best  spirits.  He  talked  and  laughed 
gleefully — now  with  Caroline,  whom  he  had  fixed  by  his 
side,  now  with  Shirley,  and  again  with  Louis  Moore.  And 
Louis  met  him  in  congenial  spirit :  he  did  not  laugh  much, 
but  he  uttered  in  the  quietest  tone  the  wittiest  things. 
Gravely  spoken  sentences,  marked  by  unexpected  turns  and 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  475 

a  quite  fresh  flavour  and  poignancy,  fell  easily  from  his  lips. 
He  proved  himself  to  be — what  Mr.  Hall  had  said  he  was — 
excellent  company.  Caroline  marvelled  at  his  humour,  but 
still  more  at  his  entire  self-possession.  Nobody  there 
present  seemed  to  impose  on  him  a  sensation  of  unpleasant 
restraint :  nobody  seemed  a  bore — a  check— a  chill  to  him  ; 
and  yet  there  was  the  cool  and  lofty  Miss  Keeldar  kneeling 
before  the  fire,  almost  at  his  feet. 

But  Shirley  was  cool  and  lofty  no  longer — at  least  not  at 
this  moment.  She  appeared  unconscious  of  the  humility  of 
her  present  position — or  if  conscious,  it  was  only  to  taste  a 
charm  in  its  lowliness.  It  did  not  revolt  her  pride  that  the 
group  to  whom  she  voluntarily  officiated  as  handmaid  should 
include  her  cousin's  tutor :  it  did  not  scare  her  that  while 
she  handed  the  bread  and  milk  to  the  rest,  she  had  to  offer 
it  to  him  also ;  and  Moore  took  his  portion  from  her  hand 
as  calmly  as  if  he  had  been  her  equal. 

'  You  are  overheated  now,'  he  said,  when  she  had 
retained  the  fork  for  some  time :  '  let  me  relieve  you.' 

And  he  took  it  from  her  with  a  sort  of  quiet  authority, 
to  which  she  submitted  passively — neither  resisting  him  nor 
thanking  him. 

1 1  should  like  to  see  your  pictures,  Louis,'  said  Caroline, 
when  the  sumptuous  luncheon  was  discussed.  '  Would  not 
you,  Mr.  Hall  ?  ' 

'  To  please  you,  I  should ;  but,  for  rny  own  part,  I  have 
cut  him  as  an  artist.  I  had  enough  of  him  in  that  capacity 
in  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  Many  a  wetting  we  got 
amongst  the  mountains  because  he  would  persist  in  sitting 
on  a  camp-stool,  catching  effects  of  rain-clouds,  gathering 
mists,  fitful  sunbeams,  and  what  not.' 

'  Here  is  the  portfolio,'  said  Henry,  bringing  it  in  one 
hand,  and  leaning  on  his  crutch  with  the  other. 

Louis  took  it,  but  he  still  sat  as  if  he  wanted  another  to 
speak.  It  seemed  as  if  he  would  not  open  it  unless  the 
proud  Shirley  deigned  to  show  herself  interested  in  the 
exhibition. 


476  SHIRLEY 

'  He  makes  us  wait  to  whet  our  curiosity/  she  said. 

'  You  understand  opening  it,'  observed  Louis,  giving  her 
the  key.  '  You  spoiled  the  lock  for  me  once — try  now.' 

He  held  it :  she  opened  it ;  and,  monopolizing  the 
contents,  had  the  fii'st  view  of  every  sketch  herself.  She 
enjoyed  the  treat — if  treat  it  were — in  silence,  without  a 
single  comment.  Moore  stood  behind  her  chair  and  looked 
over  her  shoulder,  and  when  she  had  done,  and  the  others 
were  still  gazing,  he  left  his  post  and  paced  through  the 
room. 

A  carriage  was  heard  in  the  lane — the  gate-bell  rang  : 
Shirley  started. 

'  There  are  callers,'  she  said,  '  and  I  shall  be  summoned 
to  the  room.  A  pretty  figure — as  they  say — I  am  to  receive 
company :  I  and  Henry  have  been  in  the  garden  gathering 
fruit  half  the  morning.  Oh,  for  rest  under  my  own  vine 
and  my  own  fig-tree !  Happy  is  the  slave  wife  of  the 
Indian  chief,  in  that  she  has  no  drawing-room  duty  to 
perform,  but  can  sit  at  ease  weaving  mats,  and  stringing 
beads,  and  peacefully  flattening  her  pickaninny's  head  in  an 
unmolested  corner  of  her  wigwam.  I'll  emigrate  to  the 
western  woods.' 

Louis  Moore  laughed. 

'  To  marry  a  White  Cloud  or  a  Big  Buffalo ;  and  after 
wedlock  to  devote  yourself  to  the  tender  task  of  digging 
your  lord's  maize  field,  while  he  smokes  his  pipe  or  drinks 
fire-water.' 

Shirley  seemed  about  to  reply,  but  here  the  school-room 
door  unclosed,  admitting  Mr.  Sympson.  That  personage 
stood  aghast  when  he  saw  the  group  around  the  fire. 

'  I  thought  you  alone,  Miss  Keeldar,'  he  said.  '  I  find 
quite  a  party.' 

And  evidently  from  his  shocked,  scandalized  air — had  he 
not  recognised  in  one  of  the  party  a  clergyman — he  would 
have  delivered  an  extempore  philippic  on  the  extraordinary 
habits  of  his  niece  :  respect  for  the  cloth  arrested  him. 

'  I  merely  wished  to  announce,'  he  proceeded,  coldly, '  that 


OLD  COPY-BOOKS  477 

the  family  from  De  Waldcn  Hall,  Mr.,  Mrs.,  the  Misses,  and 
Mr.  Sam  Wynne,  are  in  the  drawing-room.'  And  he  bowed 
and  withdrew. 

'The  family  from  De  Walden  Hall!  Couldn't  he  a 
worse  set,'  murmured  Shirley. 

She  sat  still,  looking  a  little  contumacious  and  very 
much  indisposed  to  stir.  She  was  flushed  with  the  fire  :  her 
dark  hair  had  been  more  than  once  dishevelled  by  the 
morning  wind  that  day ;  her  attire  was  a  light,  neatly 
fitting,  but  amply  flowing  dress  of  muslin  ;  the  shawl  she 
had  worn  in  the  garden  was  still  draped  in  a  careless  fold 
round  her.  Inrlolent,  wilful,  picturesque,  and  singularly 
pretty  was  her  aspect — prettier  than  usual,  as  if  some  soft 
inward  emotion — stirred  who  knows  how?— had  given  new 
bloom  and  expression  to  her  features. 

'Shirley — Shirley,  you  ought  to  go,'  whispered  Caroline. 

'  I  wonder  why  ?  ' 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  and  saw  in  the  glass  over  the 
fireplace  both  Mr.  Hall  and  Louis  Moore  gazing  at  her 
gravely. 

'  If,'  she  said,  with  a  yielding  smile — '  if  a  majority  of 
the  present  company  maintain  that  the  De  Walden  Hall 
people  have  claims  on  my  civility,  I  will  subdue  my  inclina- 
tions to  my  duty.  Let  those  who  think  I  ought  to  go,  hold 
up  their  hands.' 

Again  consulting  the  mirror  it  reflected  an  unanimous 
vote  against  her. 

'  You  must  go,'  said  Mr.  Hall,  '  and  behave  courteously, 
too.  You  owe  many  duties  to  society.  It  is  not  permitted 
you  to  please  only  yourself.' 

Louis  Moore  assented  with  a  low  '  I  Fear  !  hoar ! ' 

Caroline,  approaching  her,  smoothed  her  wavy  curls,  gave 
to  her  attire  a  less  artistic  and  more  domestic  grace,  and 
Shirley  was  put  oxit  of  the  room,  protesting  still,  by  a 
pouting  lip,  against  her  dismissal. 

'There  is  a  curious  charm  about  her/ observed  Mr.  Hall, 
when  she  was  gone.  '  And  now,'  he  added,  '  I  must  away, 


478  SHIKLEY 

for  Sweeting  is  off  to  see  his  mother  and  there  are  two 
funerals.' 

'  Henry,  get  your  books ;  it  is  lesson-time,'  said  Moore, 
sitting  down  to  his  desk. 

'  A  curious  charm ! '  repeated  the  pupil,  when  he  and  his 
master  were  left  alone.  '  True.  Is  she  not  a  kind  of  white 
witch  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  sir  ? ' 

'  Of  my  cousin,  Shirley.' 

'  No  irrelevant  questions.     Study  in  silence.' 

Mr.  Moore  looked  and  spoke  sternly — sourly.  Henry 
knew  this  mood  :  it  was  a  rare  one  with  his  tutor ;  but  when 
it  came  he  had  an  awe  of  it :  he  obeyed. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   FIRST   BLUE-STOCKING 

Miss  KEELDAR  and  her  uncle  had  characters  that  would  not 
harmonize, — that  never  had  harmonized.  He  was  irritable, 
and  she  was  spirited :  he  was  despotic,  and  she  liked 
freedom ;  he  was  worldly,  and  she,  perhaps,  romantic. 

Not  without  purpose  had  he  come  down  to  Yorkshire : 
his  mission  was  clear,  and  he  intended  to  discharge  it 
conscientiously :  he  anxiously  desired  to  have  his  niece 
married ;  to  make  for  her  a  suitable  match  ;  give  her  in 
charge  to  a  proper  husband,  and  wash  his  hands  of  her  for 
ever. 

The  misfortune  was,  from  infancy  upwards,  Shirley  and 
he  had  disagreed  on  the  meaning  of  the  words  '  suitable  ' 
and  '  proper.'  She  never  yet  had  accepted  his  definition  ; 
and  it  was  doubtful  whether,  in  the  most  important  step  of 
her  life,  she  would  consent  to  accept  it. 

The  trial  soon  came. 

Mr.  Wynne  proposed  in  form  for  his  sou,  Samuel 
Fawthrop  Wynne. 

'  Decidedly  suitable  !  Most  proper  ! '  pronounced  Mr. 
Sympson.  '  A  fine  unencumbered  estate  :  real  substance ; 
good  connections.  It  must  be  done  ! ' 

He  sent  for  his  niece  to  the  oak  parlour  ;  he  shut  him- 
self up  there  with  her  alone  ;  he  communicated  the  offer  ; 
he  gave  his  opinion  ;  he  claimed  her  consent. 

It  was  withheld. 

1  No  :  I  shall  not  marry  Samuel  Fawthrop  Wynne.' 


480  SHIELEY 

'  I  ask  why  ?  I  must  have  a  reason.  In  all  respects  he 
is  more  than  worthy  of  you.' 

She  stood  on  the  hearth ;  she  was  pale  as  the  white 
marble  slab  and  cornice  behind  her  ;  her  eyes  flashed  large, 
dilated,  unsmiling. 

'  And  I  ask  in  what  sense  that  young  man  is  worthy  of 
me  ? ' 

'  He  has  twice  your  money, — twice  your  common  sense  ; 
— equal  connections,— equal  respectability.' 

1  Had  he  my  money  counted  five  score  times,  I  would 
take  no  vow  to  love  him.' 

'  Please  to  state  your  objections.' 

'  He  has  run  a  course  of  despicable,  commonplace 
profligacy.  Accept  that  as  the  first  reason  why  I  spurn 
him.' 

'  Miss  Keeldar,  you  shock  me  ! ' 

'  That  conduct  alone  sinks  him  in  a  gulf  of  immeasurable 
inferiority.  His  intellect  reaches  no  standard  I  can  esteem  : 
— there  is  a  second  stumbling-block  ;  his  views  are  narrow  ; 
his  feelings  are  blunt ;  his  tastes  are  coarse ;  his  manners 
vulgar.' 

'  The  man  is  a  respectable,  wealthy  man.  To  refuse  him 
is  presumption  on  your  part.' 

'  I  refuse,  point-blank  !  Cease  to  annoy  me  with  the 
subject :  I  forbid  it ! ' 

'  Is  it  your  intention  ever  to  marry,  or  do  you  prefer 
celibacy  ? ' 

'  I  deny  your  right  to  claim  an  answer  to  that  question.' 

1  May  I  ask  if  you  expect  some  man  of  title — some  peer 
of  the  realm — to  demand  your  hand  ?  ' 

'  I  doubt  if  the  peer  breathes  on  whom  I  would  confer 
it.' 

'  Were  there  insanity  in  the  family,  I  should  believe  you 
mad.  Your  eccentricity  and  conceit  touch  the  verge  of 
frenzy.' 

'  Perhaps,  ere  I  have  finished,  you  will  see  me  over- 
leap it.' 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  481 

'  I  anticipate  no  less.  Frantic  and  impracticable  girl ! 
Take  warning ! — I  dare  you  to  sully  our  name  by  a 
mesalliance ! ' 

'  Our  name !     Am  I  called  Sympson  ? ' 

'  God  be  thanked  that  you  are  not !  But  be  on  your 
guard  !  I  will  not  be  trifled  with  ! ' 

'  What,  in  the  name  of  common  law  and  common  sense, 
would  you,  or  could  you  do,  if  my  pleasure  led  me  to  a 
choice  you  disapproved  ?  ' 

'  Take  care  !  take  care  ! '  (warning  her  with  voice  and 
hand  that  trembled  alike). 

'  Why  ?  What  shadow  of  power  have  you  over  me  ? 
Why  should  I  fear  you  ?  ' 

'  Take  care,  madam  !  ' 

'  Scrupulous  care  I  will  take,  Mr.  Sympson.  Before  I 
marry,  I  am  resolved  to  esteem — to  admire — to  love' 

'  Preposterous  stuff ! — indecorous— unwomanly ! ' 

'  To  love  with  my  whole  heart.  I  know  I  speak  in  an 
unknown  tongue ;  but  I  feel  indifferent  whether  I  am  com- 
prehended or  not.' 

'  And  if  this  love  of  yours  should  fall  on  a  beggar  ? ' 

'  On  a  beggar  it  will  never  fall.  Mendicancy  is  not 
estimable.' 

'  On  a  low  clerk,  a  play-actor,  a  play- writer,  or — or — 

'  Take  courage,  Mr.  Sympson  !     Or  what  ?  ' 

1  Any  literary  scrub,  or  shabby,  whining  artist.' 

'  For  the  scrubby,  shabby,  whining,  I  have  no  taste  :  for 
literature  and  the  arts,  I  have.  And  there  I  wonder  how 
your  Fawthrop  Wynne  would  suit  me  ?  He  cannot  write  a 
note  without  orthographical  errors  ;  he  reads  only  a  sporting 
paper :  he  was  the  booby  of  Stilbro*  grammar  school !  ' 

'  Unladylike  language !  Great  God  !-— to  what  will  she 
come  ?  '  He  lifted  hands  and  eyes. 

'  Never  to  the  altar  of  Hymen  with  Sain  Wynne.' 

'  To  what  will  she  come?  Why  are  not  the  laws  more 
stringent,  that  I  might  compel  her  to  hear  reason  ?  ' 

'  Console  yourself,  uncle.     Were  Britain  a  serfdom,  and 


482  SHIBLEY 

you  the  Czar,  you  could  not  compel  me  to  this  step.  I  will 
write  to  Mr.  Wynne.  Give  yourself  no  further  trouble  on 
the  subject.' 


Fortune  is  proverbially  called  changeful,  yet  her  caprice 
often  takes  the  form  of  repeating  again  and  again  a  similar 
stroke  of  luck  in  the  same  quarter.  It  appeared  that  Miss 
Keeldar— or  her  fortune — had  by  this  time  made  a  sensation 
in  the  district,  and  produced  an  impression  in  quarters  by 
her  unthought  of.  No  less  than  three  offers  followed  Mr. 
Wynne's — all  more  or  less  eligible.  All  were  in  succession 
pressed  on  her  by  her  uncle,  and  all  in  succession  she 
refused.  Yet  amongst  them  was  more  than  one  gentleman 
of  unexceptionable  character,  as  well  as  ample  wealth. 
Many  besides  her  uncle  asked  what  she  meant,  and  whom 
she  expected  to  entrap,  that  she  was  so  insolently  fas- 
tidious. 

At  last  the  gossips  thought  they  had  found  the  key  to 
her  conduct,  and  her  uncle  was  sure  of  it;  and,  what  is 
more,  the  discovery  showed  his  niece  to  him  in  quite  a 
new  light,  and  he  changed  his  whole  deportment  to  her 
accordingly. 

Fieldhead  had,  of  late,  been  fast  growing  too  hot  to  hold 
them  both  :  the  suave  aunt  could  not  reconcile  them ;  the 
daughters  froze  at  the  view  of  their  quarrels  :  Gertrude  and 
Isabella  whispered  by  the  hour  together  in  their  dressing- 
room,  and  became  chilled  with  decorous  dread  if  they 
chanced  to  be  left  alone  with  their  audacious  cousin.  But, 
as  I  have  said,  a  change  supervened :  Mr.  Sympson  was 
appeased  and  his  family  tranquillized. 

The  village  of  Nunnely  has  been  alluded  to  :  its  old 
church,  its  forest,  its  monastic  ruins.  It  had  also  its  Hall, 
called  the  Priory — an  older,  a  larger,  a  more  lordly  abode 
than  any  Briarfield  or  Whinbury  owned ;  and,  what  is 
more,  it  had  its  man  of  title — its  baronet,  which  neither 
Briarfield  nor  Whinbury  could  boast.  This  possession — its 


THE   FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  483 

proudest  and  most  prized — had  for  years  been  nominal 
only :  the  present  baronet,  a  young  man  hitherto  resident 
in  a  distant  province,  was  unknown  on  his  Yorkshire  estate. 

During  Miss  Keeldar's  stay  at  the  fashionable  watering- 
place  of  Cliffbridge,  she  and  her  friends  had  met  with  and 
been  introduced  to  Sir  Philip  Nunnely.  They  encountered 
him  again  and  again  on  the  sands,  the  cliffs,  in  the  various 
walks,  sometimes  at  the  public  balls  of  the  place.  He 
seemed  solitary ;  his  manner  was  very  unpretending — too 
simple  to  be  termed  affable ;  rather  timid  than  proud  :  he 
did  not  condescend  to  their  society — he  seemed  glad  of  it. 

With  any  unaffected  individual,  Shirley  could  easily  and 
quickly  cement  an  acquaintance.  She  walked  and  talked 
with  Sir  Philip  ;  she,  her  aunt,  and  cousins,  sometimes  took 
a  sail  in  his  yacht.  She  liked  him  because  she  found  him 
kind  and  modest,  and  was  charmed  to  feel  she  had  the 
power  to  amuse  him. 

One  slight  drawback  there  was — where  is  the  friendship 
without  it  ?  Sir  Philip  had  a  literary  turn  :  he  wrote  poetry, 
sonnets,  stanzas,  ballads.  Perhaps  Miss  Keeldar  thought 
him  a  little  too  fond  of  reading  and  reciting  these  composi- 
tions ;  perhaps  she  wished  the  rhyme  had  possessed  more 
accuracy — the  measure  more  music — the  tropes  more  fresh- 
ness— the  inspiration  more  fire ;  at  any  rate,  she  always 
winced  when  he  recurred  to  the  subject  of  his  poems,  and 
usually  did  her  best  to  divert  the  conversation  into  another 
channel. 

He  would  beguile  her  to  take  moonlight  walks  with  him 
on  the  bridge,  for  the  sole  purpose,  as  it  seemed,  of  pouring 
into  her  ear  the  longest  of  his  ballads  :  he  would  lead  her 
away  to  sequestered  rustic  seats,  whence  the  rush  of  the  surf 
to  the  sands  was  heard  soft  and  soothing  ;  and  when  he  had 
her  all  to  himself,  and  the  sea  lay  before  them,  and  the 
scented  shade  of  gardens  spread  round,  and  the  tall 
shelter  of  cliffs  rose  behind  them,  he  would  pull  out  his  last 
batch  of  sonnets,  and  read  them  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
emotion.  He  did  not  seem  to  know,  that  though  they  might 


484  SHIRLEY 

be  rhyme,  they  were  not  poetry.  It  appeared  by  Shirley's 
downcast  eye  and  disturbed  face  that  she  knew  it,  and  felt 
heartily  mortified  by  the  single  foible  of  this  good  and 
amiable  gentleman. 

Often  she  tried,  as  gentle  as  might  be,  to  wean  him  from 
this  fanatic  worship  of  the  Muses  :  it  was  his  monomania — 
on  all  ordinary  subjects  he  was  sensible  enough  ;  and  fain 
was  she  to  engage  him  in  ordinary  topics.  He  questioned 
her  sometimes  about  his  place  at  Nunnely  ;  she  was  but  too 
happy  to  answer  his  interrogatories  at  length  :  she  never 
wearied  of  describing  the  antique  Priory,  the  wild  sylvan 
park,  the  hoary  church  and  hamlet ;  nor  did  she  fail  to 
counsel  him  to  come  down  and  gather  his  tenantry  about 
him  in  his  ancestral  halls. 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise  Sir  Philip  followed  her  advice 
to  the  letter  ;  and  actually,  towards  the  close  of  September, 
arrived  at  the  Priory. 

He  soon  made  a  call  at  Fieldhead,  and  his  first  visit  was 
not  his  last :  he  said — when  he  had  achieved  the  round  of 
the  neighbourhood — that  under  no  roof  had  he  found  such 
pleasant  shelter  as  beneath  the  massive  oak  beams  of  the 
grey  manor-house  of  Briarfield :  a  cramped,  modest  dwelling 
enough,  compared  with  his  own — but  he  liked  it. 

Presently,  it  did  not  suffice  to  sit  with  Shirley  in  her 
panelled  parlour,  where  others  came  and  went,  and  where 
he  could  rarely  find  a  quiet  moment  to  show  her  the  latest 
production  of  his  fertile  muse ;  he  must  have  her  out 
amongst,  the  pleasant  pastures,  and  lead  her  by  the  still 
waters.  Tete-a-tete  ramblings  she  shunned  ;  so  he  mado 
parties  for  her  to  his  own  grounds,  his  glorious  forest ;  to 
remoter  scenes — woods  severed  by  the  Wharfe,  vales  watered 
by  the  Aire. 

Such  assiduity  covered  Miss  Keeldar  with  distinction. 
Her  uncle's  prophetic  soul  anticipated  a  splendid  future  :  he 
already  scented  the  time  afar  off  when,  with  nonchalant  air, 
and  left  foot  nursed  on  his  right  knee,  he  should  be  able 
to  make  dashingly  familiar  allusion  to  his  '  nephew  the 


THE   FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  485 

baronet.1  Now  his  niece  dawned  upon  Lira  no  longer  '  a 
mad  girl,'  but  a  '  most  sensible  woman.'  He  termed  her,  in 
confidential  dialogues  with  Mrs.  Sympson,  '  a  truly  superior 
person  :  peculiar,  but  very  clever.'  He  treated  her  with 
exceeding  deference  ;  rose  reverently  to  open  and  shut  doors 
for  her ;  reddened  his  face,  and  gave  himself  headaches,  with 
stooping  to  pick  up  gloves,  handkerchief.-;,  and  other  loose 
property,  whereof  Shirley  usually  held  but  insecure  tenure. 
He  would  cut  mysterious  jokes  about  the  superiority  of 
woman's  wit  over  man's  wisdom ;  commence  obscure 
apologies  for  the  blundering  mistake  he  had  committed 
respecting  the  generalship,  the  tactics,  of  '  a  personage  not 
a  hundred  miles  from  Fieldhead  : '  in  short,  he  seemed  elate 
as  any  '  midden-cock  on  pattens.' 

His  niece  viewed  his  manoeuvres,  and  received  his 
innuendoes,  with  phlegm  :  apparently,  she  did  not  above  half 
comprehend  to  what  aim  they  tended.  When  plainly 
charged  with  being  the  preferred  of  the  baronet,  she  said, 
she  believed  he  did  like  her,  and  for  her  part  she  liked  him  : 
she  had  never  thought  a  man  of  rank — the  only  son  of  a 
proud,  fond  mother  — the  only  brother  of  doting  sisters — 
could  have  so  much  goodness,  and,  on  the  whole,  so  much 
sense. 

Time  proved,  indeed,  that  Sir  Philip  liked  her.  Perhaps 
he  had  found  in  her  that  '  curious  charm  '  noticed  by  Mr, 
Hall,  He  sought  her  presence  more  and  more  ;  and,  at  last, 
with  a  frequency  that  attested  it  had  beoome  to  him  an 
indispensable  stimulus.  About  this  time  strange  feelings 
hovered  round  Fieldhead ;  restless  hopes  and  haggard 
anxieties  haunted  some  of  its  rooms.  There  was  an  unquiut 
wandering  of  some  of  the  inmates  among  the  still  lields 
round  the  mansion  ;  there  was  a  sense  of  expectancy  that 
kept  the  nerves  strained. 

One  thing  seemed  clear.  Sir  Philip  w:is  not  a  man  to 
be  despised  :  lie  was  amiable  ;  if  not  highly  intellectual,  he 
was  intelligent.  Miss  Keeldav  could  not  allinn  of  him — 
what  she  had  so  bitterly  afiiimed  of  Sam  \Vynno  that  his 


486  SHIELEY 

feelings  were  blunt,  his  tastes  coarse,  and  his  manners 
vulgar.  There  was  sensibility  in  his  nature ;  there  was  a 
very  real,  if  not  a  very  discriminating,  love  of  the  arts ; 
there  was  the  English  gentleman  in  all  his  deportment :  as 
to  his  lineage  and  wealth,  both  were,  of  course,  far  beyond 
her  claims. 

His  appearance  had  at  first  elicited  some  laughing, 
though  not  ill-natured,  remarks  from  the  merry  Shirley.  It 
was  boyish :  his  features  were  plain  and  slight ;  his  hair 
sandy ;  his  stature  insignificant.  But  she  soon  checked  her 
sarcasm  on  this  point ;  she  would  even  fire  up  if  any  one 
else  made  uncomplimentary  allusion  thereto.  He  had  '  a 
pleasing  countenance,'  she  affirmed  ;  '  and  there  was  that  in 
his  heart  which  was  better  than  three  Roman  noses,  than 
the  locks  of  Absalom,  or  the  proportions  of  Saul.'  A  spare 
and  rare  shaft  she  still  reserved  for  his  unfortunate  poetic 
propensity  :  but,  even  here,  she  would  tolerate  no  irony  save 
her  own. 

In  short,  matters  had  reached  a  point  which  seemed  fully 
to  warrant  an  observation  made  about  this  time  by  Mr. 
Yorke  to  the  tutor,  Louis. 

1  Yond'  brother  Bobert  of  yours  seems  to  me  to  be  either 
a  fool  or  a  madman.  Two  months  ago,  I  could  have  sworn 
he  had  the  game  all  in  his  own  hands ;  and  there  he  runs 
the  country,  and  quarters  himself  up  in  London  for  weeks 
together,  and  by  the  time  he  comes  back  he'll  find  himself 
checkmated.  Louis,  "  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune  ;  "  but,  once 
let  slip,  never  returns  again.  I'd  write  to  Robert,  if  I  were 
you,  and  remind  him  of  that.' 

'  Robert  had  views  on  Miss  Keeldar  ?  '  inquired  Louis, 
as  if  the  idea  were  new  to  him. 

'  Views  I  suggested  to  him  myself,  and  views  he  might 
have  realized,  for  she  liked  him.' 

'  As  a  neighbour  ?  ' 

'  As  more  than  that.  I  have  seen  her  change  counten- 
ance and  colour  at  the  mere  mention  of  his  name.  Write 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  487 

to  the  lad,  I  say,  and  tell  him  to  come  home.  He  is  a  finer 
gentleman  than  this  bit  of  a  baronet,  after  all.' 

'  Does  it  not  strike  you,  Mr.  Yorke,  that  for  a  mere 
penniless  adventurer  to  aspire  to  a  rich  woman's  hand  is 
presumptuous — contemptible  ?  ' 

'  Oh !  if  you  are  for  high  notions,  and  double-refined 
sentiment,  I've  naught  to  say.  I'm  a  plain,  practical  man 
myself ;  and  if  Robert  is  willing  to  give  up  that  royal 
prize  to  a  lad-rival — a  puling  slip  of  aristocracy — I  am  quite 
agreeable.  At  his  age,  in  his  place,  with  his  inducements,  I 
would  have  acted  differently.  Neither  baronet,  nor  duke, 
nor  prince,  should  have  snatched  my  sweetheart  from  me 
without  a  struggle.  But  you  tutors  are  such  solemn  chaps : 
it  is  almost  like  speaking  to  a  parson  to  consult  with  you.' 


Flattered  and  fawned  upon  as  Shirley  was  just  now,  it 
appeared  she  was  not  absolutely  spoiled — that  her  better 
nature  did  not  quite  leave  her.  Universal  report  hat! 
indeed  ceased  to  couple  her  name  with  that  of  Moore,  and 
this  silence  seemed  sanctioned  by  her  own  apparent  oblivion 
of  the  absentee  ;  but  that  she  had  not  quite  forgotten  him  — 
that  she  still  regarded  him,  if  not  with  love  yet  with  interest 
—-seemed  proved  by  the  increased  attention  which  at  this 
juncture  of  affairs  a  sudden  attack  of  illness  induced  her  to 
show  that  tutor-brother  of  Robert's  to  whom  she  habitually 
bore  herself  with  strange  alternations  of  cool  reserve  and 
docile  respect :  now  sweeping  past  him  in  all  the  dignity  of 
the  moneyed  heiress  and  prospective  Lady  Nunnely,  and 
anon  accosting  him  as  abashed  school-girls  are  wont  to 
accost  their  stern  professors  :  bridling  her  neck  of  ivory,  and 
curling  her  lip  of  carmine,  if  he  encountered  her  glance,  one 
minute ;  and  the  next  submitting  to  the  grave  rebuke  of  his 
eye,  with  as  much  contrition  as  if  he  had  the  power  to  inflict 
penalties  in  case  of  contumacy. 

Louis  Moore  had  perhaps  caught  the  fever,  which  for  a 
few  days  laid  him  low,  in  one  of  the  poor  cottages  of  the 


488  SHIRLEY 

district,  which  he,  his  lame  pupil,  and  Mr.  Hall,  were  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  together.  At  any  rate  he  sickened,  and 
after  opposing  to  the  malady  a  taciturn  resistance  for  a  day 
or  two,  was  obliged  to  keep  his  chamber. 

He  lay  tossing  on  his  thorny  bed  one  evening,  Henry, 
who  would  not  quit  him,  watching  faithfully  beside  him, 
when  a  tap — too  light  to  be  that  of  Mrs.  Gill  or  the  house- 
maid— summoned  young  Sympson  to  the  door. 

'  How  is  Mr.  Moore  to-night  ? '  asked  a  low  voice  from 
the  dark  gallery. 

'  Come  in  and  see  him  yourself.' 

'  Is  he  asleep  ? ' 

'  I  wish  he  could  sleep.  Come  and  speak  to  him, 
Shirley.' 

'  He  would  not  like  it.' 

But  the  speaker  stepped  in,  and  Henry,  seeing  her 
hesitate  on  the  threshold,  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  the 
couch. 

The  shaded  light  showed  Miss  Keeldar's  form  but 
imperfectly,  yet  it  revealed  her  in  elegant  attire.  There  was 
a  party  assembled  below,  including  Sir  Philip  Nunnely ;  the 
ladies  were  now  in  the  drawing-room,  and  their  hostess  had 
stolen  from  them  to  visit  Henry's  tutor.  Her  pure  white 
dress,  her  fair  arms  and  neck,  the  trembling  chainlet  of  gold 
circling  her  throat,  and  quivering  on  her  breast,  glistened 
strangely  amid  the  obscurity  of  the  sick-room.  Her  mien 
was  chastened  and  pensive  :  she  spoke  gently. 

'  Mr.  Moore,  how  are  you  to-night?  ' 

'  I  have  not  been  very  ill,  and  am  now  better.' 

'  I  heard  that  you  complained  of  thirst :  I  have  brought 
you  some  grapes  :  can  you  taste  one  ?  ' 

1  No  :  but  I  thank  you  for  remembering  me.' 

'  Just  one.' 

From  the  rich  cluster  that  filled  a  small  basket  held  in 
her  hand,  she  severed  a  berry  and  offered  it  to  his  lips.  He 
shook  his  head,  and  turned  aside  his  flushed  face. 

'  But  what  then  can  I  bring  you  instead  ?     You  have  no 


THE   FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  489 

wish  for  fruit ;  yet  I  see  that  your  lips  are  parched.  What 
beverage  do  you  prefer  ? ' 

'  Mrs.  Gill  supplies  me  with  toast-and-water :  I  like  it 
best.' 

Silence  fell  for  some  minutes. 

'  Do  you  suffer  ?     Have  you  pain  ? ' 

1  Very  little.' 

'  What  made  you  ill  ? ' 

Silence. 

'  I  wonder  what  caused  this  fever  ?  To  what  do  you 
attribute  it  ? ' 

'  Miasma,  perhaps — malaria.  This  is  autumn,  a  season 
fertile  in  fevers.' 

'  I  hear  you  often  visit  the  sick  in  Briarfield,  and 
Nunnely  too,  with  Mr.  Hall :  you  should  be  on  your  guard  : 
temerity  is  not  wise.' 

'  That  reminds  me,  Miss  Keeldar,  that  perhaps  you  had 
better  not  enter  this  chamber  or  come  near  this  couch.  I 
do  not  believe  my  illness  is  infectious :  I  scarcely  fear ' 
(with  a  sort  of  smile)  '  you  will  take  it ;  but  why  should  you 
run  even  the  shadow  of  a  risk  ?  Leave  me.' 

'  Patience  :  I  will  go  soon  ;  but  I  should  like  to  do  some- 
thing for  you  before  I  depart— any  little  service ' 

'  They  will  miss  you  below.' 

'  No,  the  gentlemen  are  still  at  table.' 

'  They  will  not  linger  long :  Sir  Philip  Nunnely  is  no 
wine-bibber,  and  I  hear  him  just  now  pass  from  the  dining- 
room  to  the  drawing-room.' 

'  It  is  a  servant.' 

'  It  is  Sir  Philip,  I  know  his  step.' 

1  Your  hearing  is  acute.' 

'  It  is  never  dull,  and  the  sense  seems  sharpened  at 
present.  Sir  Philip  was  here  to  tea  last  night.  I  heard 
you  sing  to  him  some  song  which  he  had  brought  you.  I 
heard  him,  when  he  took  his  departure  at  eleven  o'clock, 
call  you  out  on  to  the  pavement,  to  look  at  the  evening 
star.' 


490  SHIRLEY 

'  You  must  be  nervously  sensitive.' 

'  I  heard  him  kiss  your  hand.' 

'  Impossible ! ' 

4  No ;  my  chamber  is  over  the  hall,  the  window  just 
above  the  front  door,  the  sash  was  a  little  raised,  for  I  felt 
feverish  :  you  stood  ten  minutes  with  him  on  the  steps  :  I 
heard  your  discourse,  every  word,  and  I  heard  the  salute. 
Henry,  give  me  some  water.' 

'  Let  me  give  it  him.' 

But  he  half  rose  to  take  the  glass  from  young  Sympson, 
and  declined  her  attendance. 

'  And  can  I  do  nothing  ?  ' 

1  Nothing :  for  you  cannot  guarantee  me  a  night's  peace- 
ful rest,  and  it  is  all  I  at  present  want.' 

4  You  do  not  sleep  well  ?  ' 

'  Sleep  has  left  me.' 

'  Yet  you  said  you  were  not  very  ill  ?  ' 

'  I  am  often  sleepless  when  in  high  health.' 

4  If  I  had  power,  I  would  lap  you  in  the  most  placid 
slumber  ;  quite  deep  and  hushed,  without  a  dream.' 

'  Blank  annihilation  !     I  do  not  ask  that.' 

'  With  dreams  of  all  you  most  desire.' 

4  Monstrous  delusions  !  The  sleep  would  be  delirium, 
the  waking  death.' 

4  Your  wishes  are  not  so  chimerical  :  you  are  no 
visionary  ? ' 

4  Miss  Keeldar,  I  suppose  you  think  so  ;  but  my  character 
is  not,  perhaps,  quite  as  legible  to  you  as  a  page  of  the  last 
new  novel  might  be.' 

'  That  is  possible.  .  .  .  But  this  sleep  :  I  should  like  to 
woo  it  to  your  pillow — to  win  for  you  its  favour.  If  I  took 

a  book  and  sat  down,  and  read  some  pages ?  I  can 

well  spare  half-an-hour.' 

'  Thank  you,  but  I  will  not  detain  you.' 

4 1  would  read  softly.' 

'  It  would  not  do.     I  am  too  feverish  and  excitable  to 


THE  FIKST  BLUE-STOCKING  491 

bear  a  soft,  cooing,  vibrating  voice  close  at  my  ear.  You 
had  better  leave  me.1 

'  Well,  I  will  go.' 

1  And  no  good-night  ? ' 

1  Yes,  sir,  yes.     Mr.  Moore,  good-night.'     (Exit  Shirley.) 

1  Henry,  my  boy,  go  to  bed  now :  it  is  time  you  had 
some  repose.' 

'  Sir,  it  would  please  me  to  watch  at  your  bed-side  all 
night.' 

'  Nothing  less  called  for  :  I  am  getting  better  :  there,  go.' 

'  Give  me  your  blessing,  sir.' 

'  God  bless  you,  my  best  pupil ! ' 

'  You  never  call  me  your  dearest  pupil ! ' 

'  No,  nor  ever  shall.' 


Possibly  Miss  Keeldar  resented  her  former  teacher's 
rejection  of  her  courtesy  :  it  is  certain  she  did  not  repeat  the 
offer  of  it.  Often  as  her  light  step  traversed  the  gallery  in 
the  course  of  a  day,  it  did  not  again  pause  at  his  door ;  nor 
did  her  '  cooing,  vibrating  voice  '  disturb  a  second  time  the 
hush  of  the  sick-room.  A  sick-room,  indeed,  it  soon  ceased 
to  be ;  Mr.  Moore's  good  constitution  quickly  triumphed 
over  his  indisposition  :  in  a  few  days  he  shook  it  off,  and 
resumed  his  duties  as  tutor. 

That  '  Auld  Langsyne '  had  still  its  authority  both  with 
preceptor  and  scholar,  was  proved  by  the  manner  in  which 
he  sometimes  promptly  passed  the  distance  she  usually 
maintained  between  them,  and  put  down  her  high  reserve 
with  a  firm,  quiet  hand. 

One  afternoon  the  Sympson  family  were  gone  out  to 
take  a  carriage  airing.  Shirley,  never  sorry  to  snatch  a 
reprieve  from  their  society,  had  remained  behind,  detained 
by  business,  as  she  said.  The  business — a  little  letter- 
writing—was  soon  despatched  after  the  yard-gates  had 
closed  on  the  carriage :  Miss  Keeldar  betook  herself  to  the 
garden. 


492  SHIRLEY 

It  was  a  peaceful  autumn  day.  The  gilding  of  the  Indian 
summer  mellowed  the  pastures  far  and  wide.  The  russet 
woods  stood  ripe  to  be  stript,  but  were  yet  full  of  leaf.  The 
purple  of  heath-bloom,  faded  but  not  withered,  tinged  the 
hills.  The  beck  wandered  down  to  the  Hollow,  through  a 
silent  district ;  no  wind  followed  its  course,  or  haunted  its 
woody  borders.  Fieldhcad  gardens  bore  the  seal  of  gentle 
decay.  On  the  walks,  swept  that  morning,  yellow  leaves 
had  fluttered  down  again.  Its  time  of  flowers,  and  even  of 
fruits,  was  over;  but  a  scantling  of  apples  enriched  the 
trees ;  only  a  blossom  here  and  there  expanded  pale  and 
delicate  amidst  a  knot  of  faded  leaves. 

These  single  flowers — the  last  of  their  race — Shirley 
culled  as  she  wandered  thoughtfully  amongst  the  beds.  She 
was  fastening  into  her  girdle  a  hueless  and  scentless  nosegay, 
when  Henry  Sympson  called  to  her  as  he  came  limping  from 
the  house. 

'  Shirley,  Mr.  Moore  would  be  glad  to  see  you  in  the 
school-room  and  to  hear  you  read  a  little  French,  if  you 
have  no  more  urgent  occupation.' 

The  messenger  delivered  his  commission  very  simply,  as 
if  it  were  a  mere  matter  of  course. 

'  Did  Mr.  Moore  tell  you  to  say  that  ? ' 

'  Certainly  :  why  not  ?  And  now,  do  come,  and  let  us 
once  more  be  as  we  were  at  Sympson -grove.  We  used  to 
have  pleasant  school-hours  in  those  days.' 

Miss  Keeldar,  perhaps,  thought  that  circumstances  were 
changed  since  then  ;  however,  she  made  no  remark,  but 
after  a  little  reflection  quietly  followed  Henry. 

Entering  the  school-room,  she  inclined  her  head  with  a 
decent  obeisance,  as  had  been  her  wont  in  former  times ; 
she  removed  her  bonnet,  and  hung  it  up  beside  Henry's  cap. 
Louis  Moore  sat  at  his  desk,  turning  the  leaves  of  a  book, 
open  before  him,  and  marking  passages  with  his  pencil ;  he 
just  moved,  in  acknowledgment  of  her  curtsey,  but  did  not 
rise. 

'  You  proposed  to  read  to  me  a  few  nights  ago,"  said  he. 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  493 

'  I  could  not  hear  you  then ;  my  attention  is  now  at  your 
service.  A  little  renewed  practice  in  French  may  not  be 
unprofitable :  your  accent,  I  have  observed,  begins  to 
rust.' 

1  What  book  shall  I  take  ? ' 

'  Here  are  the  posthumous  works  of  St.  Pierre.  Read  a 
few  pages  of  the  "  Fragments  de  1'Amazone."  ' 

She  accepted  the  chair  which  he  had  placed  in  readiness 
near  his  own — the  volume  lay  on  his  desk— there  was  but 
one  between  them,  her  sweeping  curls  drooped  so  low  as  to 
hide  the  page  from  him. 

'  Put  back  your  hair,'  he  said. 

For  one  moment,  Shirley  looked  not  quite  certain 
whether  she  would  obey  the  request  or  disregard  it  :  a 
flicker  of  her  eye  beamed  furtive  on  the  professor's  face ; 
perhaps  if  he  had  been  looking  at  her  harshly  or  timidly,  or 
if  one  undecided  line  had  marked  his  countenance,  she  would 
have  rebelled,  and  the  lesson  had  ended  there  and  then  ; 
but  he  was  only  awaiting  her  compliance — as  calm  as 
marble,  and  as  cool.  She  threw  the  veil  of  tresses  behind 
her  ear.  It  was  well  her  face  owned  an  agreeable  outline, 
and  that  her  cheek  possessed  the  polish  and  the  roundness 
of  early  youth,  or,  thus  robbed  of  a  softening  shade,  the  con- 
tours might  have  lost  their  grace.  But  what  mattered  that 
in  the  present  society  ?  Neither  Calypso  nor  Eucharis  cared 
to  fascinate  Mentor. 

She  began  to  read.  The  language  had  become  strange 
to  her  tongue ;  it  faltered  :  the  lecture  flowed  unevenly, 
impeded  by  hurried  breath,  broken  by  Anglicised  tones.  She 
stopped. 

'  I  can't  do  it.  Read  me  a  paragraph,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Moore.' 

What  lie  read,  she  repeated :  she  caught  his  accent  in 
three  minutes. 

'  Tres  bien,'  was  the  approving  comment  at  the  close  of 
the  piece. 

'  C'est  presque  le  Fran^ais  rattrape1,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  ' 


494  SHIKLEY 

'  You  could  not  write  French  as  you  once  could,  I  dare- 


say  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  no.  I  should  make  strange  work  of  my  concords 
now.' 

'  You  could  not  compose  the  devoir  of  "  La  Premiere 
Femme  Savante  ? ' 

'  Do  you  still  remember  that  rubbish  ? ' 

'  Every  line.' 

'  I  doubt  you.' 

'  I  will  engage  to  repeat  it  word  for  word.' 

'  You  would  stop  short  at  the  first  Hue.' 

'  Challenge  me  to  the  experiment.' 

'  I  challenge  you.' 

He  proceeded  to  recite  the  following  :  he  gave  it  in 
French,  but  we  must  translate,  on  pain  of  being  unintelligible 
to  some  readers. 


•  And  it  came  to  pass  when  men  began  to  multiply  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  daughters  were  born  unto  them,  that  the  sons  of  God  saw 
the  daughters  of  men  that  they  were  fair  ;  and  they  took  them  wives  of 
all  which  they  chose.' 

This  was  in  the  dawn  of  time,  before  the  morning  stars 
were  set,  and  while  they  yet  sang  together. 

The  epoch  is  so  remote,  the  mists  and  dewy  grey  of 
matin  twilight  veil  it  with  so  vague  an  obscurity,  that  all 
distinct  feature  of  custom,  all  clear  line  of  locality,  evade 
perception  and  baffle  research.  It  must  suffice  to  know  that 
the  world  then  existed  ;  that  men  peopled  it ;  that  man's 
nature,  with  its  passions,  sympathies,  pains,  and  pleasures, 
informed  the  planet  and  gave  it  soul. 

A  certain  tribe  colonized  a  certain  spot  on  the  globe  ;  of 
what  race  this  tribe — unknown  :  in  what  region  that  spot — 
untold.  We  usually  think  of  the  East  when  we  refer  to 
transactions  of  that  date  ;  but  who  shall  declare  that  there 
was  no  life  in  the  West,  the  South,  the  North  ?  What  is  to 
disprove  that  this  tribe,  instead  of  camping  under  palm- 


THE  FIKST  BLUE-STOCKING  495 

groves  in  Asia,  wandered  beneath  island  oak-woods  rooted 
in  our  own  seas  of  Europe  ? 

It  is  no  sandy  plain,  nor  any  circumscribed  and  scant 
oasis  I  seem  to  realize.  A  forest  valley,  with  rocky  sides 
and  brown  profundity  of  shade,  formed  by  tree  crowding  on 
tree,  descends  deep  before  me.  Here,  indeed,  dwell  human 
beings,  but  so  few,  and  in  alleys  so  thick-branched  and  over- 
arched, they  are  neither  heard  nor  seen.  Are  they  savage  ? 
— doubtless.  They  live  by  the  crook  and  the  bow  :  half 
shepherds,  half  hunters,  their  flocks  wander  wild  as  their 
prey.  Are  they  happy  ? — no  :  not  more  happy  than  we  are 
at  this  day.  Are  they  good  ? — no  :  not  better  than  our- 
selves :  their  nature  is  our  nature — human  both.  There  is 
one  in  this  tribe  too  often  miserable — a  child  bereaved  of 
both  parents.  None  cares  for  this  child  :  she  is  fed  some- 
times, but  oftener  forgotten  :  a  hut  rarely  receives  her  :  the 
hollow  tree  and  chill  cavern  are  her  home.  Forsaken,  lost, 
and  wandering,  she  lives  more  with  the  wild  beast  and  bird 
than  with  her  own  kind.  Hunger  and  cold  are  her  comrades  : 
sadness  hovers  over,  and  solitude  besets  her  round.  Un- 
heeded and  unvalued,  she  should  die  :  but  she  both  lives 
and  grows  :  the  green  wilderness  nurses  her,  and  becomes 
to  her  a  mother :  feeds  her  on  juicy  berry,  on  saccharine 
root  and  nut. 

There  is  something  in  the  air  of  this  clime  which  fosters 
life  kindly  :  there  must  be  something,  too,  in  its  dews,  which 
heals  with  sovereign  balm.  Its  gentle  seasons  exaggerate 
no  passion,  no  sense  ;  its  temperature  tends  to  haiTnony  ;  its 
breezes,  you  would  say,  bring  down  from  heaven  the  germ 
of  pure  thought,  and  purer  feeling.  Not  grotesquely 
fantastic  are  the  forms  of  cliff  and  foliage  ;  not  violently 
vivid  the  colouring  of  flower  and  bird  :  in  all  the  grandeur 
of  these  forests  there  is  repose ;  in  all  their  freshness  there 
is  tenderness. 

The  gentle  charm  vouchsafed  to  flower  and  tree, — 
bestowed  on  deer  and  dove, — has  not  been  denied  to  the 
human  nursling.  All  solitary,  she  has  sprung  up  straight 


496  SHIBLEY 

and  graceful.  Nature  cast  her  features  in  a  fine  mould ; 
they  have  matured  in  their  pure,  accurate  first  lines,  un- 
altered by  the  shocks  of  disease.  No  fierce  dry  blast  has 
dealt  rudely  with  the  surface  of  her  frame ;  no  burning  sun 
has  crisped  or  withered  her  tresses  :  her  form  gleams  ivory- 
white  through  the  trees  ;  her  hair  flows  plenteous,  long,  and 
glossy ;  her  eyes  not  dazzled  by  vertical  fires,  beam  in  the 
shade  large  and  open,  and  full  and  dewy  :  above  those  eyes, 
when  the  breeze  bares  her  forehead,  shines  an  expanse  fair 
and  ample, — a  clear,  candid  page,  whereon  knowledge, 
should  knowledge  ever  come,  might  write  a  golden  record. 
You  see  in  the  desolate  young  savage  nothing  vicious  or 
vacant ;  she  haunts  the  wood  harmless  and  thoughtful : 
though  of  what  one  so  untaught  can  think,  it  is  not  easy  to 
divine. 

On  the  evening  of  one  summer  day,  before  the  Flood, 
being  utterly  alone — for  she  had  lost  all  trace  of  her  tribe, 
who  had  wandered  leagues  away,  she  knew  not  where, — she 
went  up  from  the  vale,  to  watch  Day  take  leave  and  Night 
arrive.  A  crag,  overspread  by  a  tree,  was  her  station  :  the 
oak-roots,  turfed  and  mossed,  gave  a  seat :  the  oak-boughs, 
thick-leaved,  wove  a  canopy. 

Slow  and  grand  the  Day  withdrew,  passing  in  purple 
fire,  and  parting  to  the  farewell  of  a  wild,  low  chorus  from 
the  woodlands.  Then  Night  entered,  quiet  as  death  :  the 
wind  fell,  the  birds  ceased  singing.  Now  every  nest  held 
happy  mates,  and  hart  and  hind  slumbered  blissfully  safe  in 
their  lair. 

The  girl  sat,  her  body  still,  her  soul  astir ;  occupied,  how- 
ever, rather  in  feeling  than  in  thinking, — in  wishing,  than 
hoping,  -in  imagining,  than  projecting.  She  felt  the  world, 
the  sky,  the  night,  boundlessly  mighty.  Of  all  things,  herself 
seemed  to  herself  the  centre,— a  small,  forgotten  atom  of  life, 
a  spark  of  soul,  emitted  inadvertent  from  the  great  creative 
source,  and  now  burning  unmarked  to  waste  in  the  heart  of 
a  black  hollow.  She  asked,  was  she  thus  to  burn  out  and 
perish,  her  living  light  doing  no  good,  never  seen,  never 


THE   FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  4S7 

needed, — a  star  in  an  else  starless  firmament, — which  nor 
shepherd,  nor  wanderer,  nor  sage,  nor  priest,  tracked  as  a 
guide,  or  read  as  a  prophecy  ?  Could  this  be,  she  demanded, 
when  the  flame  of  her  intelligence  burned  so  vivid ;  when 
her  life  beat  so  true,  and  real,  and  potent ;  when  something 
within  her  stirred  disquieted,  and  restlessly  asserted  a  God- 
given  strength,  for  which  it  insisted  she  should  find  exercise? 

She  gazed  abroad  on  Heaven  and  Evening  :  Heaven  and 
Evening  gazed  back  on  her.  She  bent  down,  searching 
bank,  hill,  river,  spread  dim  below.  All  she  questioned  re- 
sponded by  oracles :  she  heard,  she  was  impressed  ;  but  she 
could  not  understand.  Above  her  head  she  raised  her  hands 
joined  together. 

'  Guidance — help — comfort — come  ! '  was  her  cry. 

There  was  no  voice,  nor  any  that  answered. 

She  waited,  kneeling,  steadfastly  looking  up.  Yonder 
sky  was  sealed :  the  solemn  stars  shone  alien  and  remote. 

At  last,  one  over-stretched  chord  of  her  agony  slacked : 
she  thought  Something  above  relented  :  she  felt  as  if  Some- 
thing far  round  drew  nigher :  she  heard  as  if  Silence  spoke. 
There  was  no  language,  no  word,  only  a  tone. 

Again -a  fine,  full,  lofty  tone,  a  deep,  soft  sound,  like  a 
storm  whispering,  made  twilight  undulate. 

Once  more,  profounder,  nearer,  clearer,  it  rolled  har- 
monious. 

Yet,  again a  distinct  voice  passed  between  Heaven 

and  Earth. 

'  Eva ! ' 

If  Eva  were  not  this  woman's  name,  she  had  none.  She 
rose. 

'  Here  am  I.' 

1  Eva ! ' 

'  Oh,  Night !  (it  can  be  but  Night  that  speaks)  I  am  here ! ' 

The  voice,  descending,  reached  Earth. 

'  Eva ! ' 

'  Lord  ! '  she  cried,  '  behold  thine  handmaid  ! ' 

She  had  her  religion  :  all  tribes  held  some  creed. 


498  SHIRLEY 

'  I  come  :  a  Comforter  1 ' 

'  Lord,  come  quickly  ! ' 

The  Evening  flushed  full  of  hope :  the  Air  panted ;  the 
Moon — rising  before — ascended  large,  but  her  light  showed 
no  shape. 

1  Lean  towards  me,  Eva.    Enter  my  arms ;  repose  thus.1 

1  Thus  I  lean,  O  Invisible,  but  felt !    And  what  art  thou?' 

1  Eva,  I  have  brought  a  living  draught  from  heaven. 
Daughter  of  Man,  drink  of  my  cup  ! ' 

'  I  drink — it  is  as  if  sweetest  dew  visited  my  lips  in  a  full 
current.  My  arid  heart  revives  :  my  affliction  is  lightened  : 
my  strait  and  struggle  ai*e  gone.  And  the  night  changes ! 
the  wood,  the  hill,  the  moon,  the  wide  sky — all  change ! ' 

'  All  change,  and  for  ever.  I  take  from  thy  vision,  dark- 
ness :  I  loosen  from  thy  faculties,  fetters !  I  level  in  thy 
path,  obstacles  :  I,  with  my  presence,  fill  vacancy :  I  claim 
as  mine  the  lost  atom  of  life :  I  take  to  myself  the  spark  of 
soul — burning,  heretofore,  forgotten  ! ' 

'  Oh,  take  me  !     Oh,  claim  me  !     This  is  a  god.' 

1  This  is  a  son  of  God :  one  who  feels  himself  in  the 
portion  of  life  that  stirs  you  :  he  is  suffered  to  reclaim  his 
own,  and  so  to  foster  and  aid  that  it  shall  not  perish 
hopeless.' 

'  A  Son  of  God  !     Am  I  indeed  chosen  ?  ' 

1  Thou  only  in  this  land.  I  saw  thee  that  thou  wert  fair  : 
I  knew  thee  that  thou  wert  mine.  To  me  it  is  given  to 
rescue,  to  sustain,  to  cherish,  mine  own.  Acknowledge  in 
me  that  Seraph  on  earth,  named  Genius." 

'  My  glorious  Bridegroom !  True  Dayspring  from  on 
high  !  All  I  would  have,  at  last  I  possess.  I  receive  a 
revelation.  The  dark  hint,  the  obscure  whisper,  which  have 
haunted  me  from  childhood,  are  interpreted.  Thou  art  He  I 
sought.  God-born,  take  me,  thy  bride  ! ' 

1  Unhumblwl,  I  can  take  what  is  mine.  Did  I  not  give 
from  the  altar  the  very  flame  which  lit  Eva's  being  ?  Come 
again  into  the  heaven  whence  thou  wert  sent.' 

That  Presence,  invisible,  but  mighty,  gathered  her  in  like 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  499 

a  lamb  to  the  fold;  that  voice,  soft,  but  all-pervading, 
vibrated  through  her  heart  like  music.  Her  eye  received 
no  image  :  and  yet  a  sense  visited  her  vision  and  her  brain 
as  of  the  serenity  of  stainless  air,  the  power  of  sovereign 
seas,  the  majesty  of  marching  stars,  the  energy  of  colliding 
elements,  the  rooted  endurance  of  hills  wide  based,  and, 
above  all,  as  of  the  lustre  of  heroic  beauty  rushing  victorious 
on  the  Night,  vanquishing  its  shadows  like  a  diviner  sun. 

Such  was  the  bridal-hour  of  Genius  and  Humanity. 
Who  shall  rehearse  the  tale  of  their  after-union  ?  Who 
shall  depict  its  bliss  and  bale  ?  Who  shall  tell  how  He, 
between  whom  and  the  Woman  God  put  enmity,  forged 
deadly  plots  to  break  the  bond  or  defile  its  purity?  Who 
shall  record  the  long  strife  between  Serpent  and  Seraph? 
How  still  the  Father  of  Lies  insinuated  evil  into  Good — 
pride  into  wisdom — grossness  into  glory— pain  into  bliss — 
poison  into  passion  ?  How  the  '  dreadless  Angel '  defied, 
resisted,  and  repelled  ?  How,  again  and  again,  he  refined 
the  polluted  cup,  exalted  the  debased  emotion,  rectified  the 
perverted  impulse,  detected  the  lurking  venom,  baffled  the 
frontless  temptation — purified,  justified,  watched,  arid  with- 
stood? How,  by  his  patience,  by  his  strength,  by  that 
unutterable  excellence  he  held  from  God — his  Origin— this 
faithful  Seraph  fought  for  Humanity  a  good  fight  through 
time ;  and,  when  Time's  course  closed,  and  Death  was 
encountered  at  the  end,  barring  with  fleshless  arm  the 
portals  of  Etci'nity,  how  Genius  still  held  close  his  dying 
bride,  sustained  her  through  the  agony  of  the  passage,  bore 
her  triumphant  into  his  own  home —  Heaven  ;  restored  her, 
redeemed,  to  Jehovah — her  Maker;  and  at  last,  before  Angel 
and  Archangel,  crowned  her  with  the  crown  of  Immortality. 

Who  shall,  of  these  things,  write  the  chronicle  ? 

'I  never  could  correct  that  composition/  observed  Shirley, 
as  Moore  concluded.  '  Your  censor-pencil  scored  it  with 
condemnatory  lines,  whose  signification  I  strove  vainly  to 
fathom,' 


500  SHIRLEY 

She  had  taken  a  crayon  from  the  tutor's  desk,  and  was 
drawing  little  leaves,  fragments  of  pillars,  broken  crosses, 
on  the  margin  of  the  book. 

1  French  may  be  half -forgotten,  but  the  habits  of  the 
French  lesson  are  retained,  I  see,'  said  Louis :  '  my  books 
would  now,  as  erst,  be  unsafe  with  you.  My  newly  bound 
St.  Pierre  would  soon  be  like  my  Eacine  :  Miss  Keeldar, 
her  mark — traced  on  every  page.' 

Shirley  dropped  her  crayon  as  if  it  burned  her  fingers. 

'Tell  me  what  were  the  faults  of  that  devoir?'  she  asked. 
'  Were  they  grammatical  errors,  or  did  you  object  to  the 
substance  ? ' 

'  I  never  said  that  the  lines  I  drew  were  indications  of 
faults  at  all.  You  would  have  it  that  such  was  the  case, 
and  I  refrained  from  contradiction.' 

'  What  else  did  they  denote  ?  ' 

'  No  matter  now.' 

1  Mr.  Moore,'  cried  Henry,  '  make  Shirley  repeat  some  of 
the  pieces  she  used  to  say  so  well  by  heart.' 

'  If  I  ask  for  any,  it  will  be  "  Le  Cheval  DompteV' '  said 
Moore,  trimming  with  his  penknife  the  pencil  Miss  Keeldar 
had  worn  to  a  stump. 

She  turned  aside  her  head  ;  the  neck,  the  clear  cheek, 
forsaken  by  their  natural  veil,  were  seen  to  flush  warm. 

'  Ah  !  she  has  not  forgotten,  you  see,  sir,'  said  Henry, 
exultant.  '  She  knows  how  naughty  she  was.' 

A  smile,  which  Shirley  would  not  permit  to  expand, 
made  her  lip  tremble ;  she  bent  her  face,  and  hid  it  half 
with  her  arms,  half  in  her  curls,  which,  as  she  stooped  fell 
loose  again. 

'  Certainly,  I  was  a  rebel ! '  she  answered. 

'  A  rebel !  '  repeated  Henry.  '  Yes  :  you  and  papa  had 
quarrelled  terribly,  and  you  set  both  him  and  mamma,  and 
Mrs.  Pryor,  and  everybody,  at  defiance  :  you  said  he  had 
insulted  you — 

'  He  had  insulted  me,'  interposed  Shirley. 

'  And    you    wanted    to    leave    Sympson    Grove   directly, 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  501 

You  packed  your  things  up,  and  papa  threw  them  out  of 
your  trunk  ;  mamma  cried — Mrs.  Pryor  cried ;  they  both 
stood  wringing  their  hands,  begging  you  to  be  patient,  and 
you  knelt  on  the  floor  with  your  things  and  your  upturned  box 
before  you,  looking,  Shirley — looking — why,  in  one  of  your 
passions.  Your  features,  in  such  passions,  are  not  distorted : 
they  are  fixed,  but  quite  beautiful :  you  scarcely  look  angry, 
only  resolute,  and  in  a  certain  haste  ;  yet  one  feels  that,  at 
such  times,  an  obstacle  cast  across  your  path  would  be  split 
as  with  lightning.  Papa  lost  heart,  and  called  Mr.  Moore.1 

'  Enough,  Henry.' 

'  No :  it  is  not  enough.  I  hardly  know  how  Mr.  Moore 
managed,  except  that  I  recollect  he  suggested  to  papa  that 
agitation  would  bring  on  his  gout ;  and  then  he  spoke  quietly 
to  the  ladies,  and  got  them  away ;  and  afterwards  he  said  to 
you,  Miss  Shirley,  that  it  was  of  no  use  talking  or  lecturing 
now,  but  that  the  tea-things  were  just  brought  into  the 
school-room,  and  he  was  very  thirsty,  and  he  would  be  glad 
if  you  would  leave  your  packing  for  the  present  and  come 
and  make  a  cup  of  tea  for  him  and  me.  You  came  :  you 
would  not  talk  at  first ;  but  soon  you  softened  and  grew 
cheerful.  Mr.  Moore  began  to  tell  us  about  the  Continent, 
the  war,  and  Buonaparte ;  subjects  we  were  both  fond  of 
listening  to.  After  tea  he  said  we  should  neither  of  us  leave 
him  that  evening :  he  would  not  let  us  stray  out  of  his  sight, 
lest  we  should  again  get  into  mischief.  We  sat  one  on  each 
side  of  him  :  we  were  so  happy.  I  never  passed  so  pleasant 
an  evening.  The  next  day  he  gave  you,  missy,  a  lecture  of 
an  hour,  and  wound  it  up  by  marking  you  a  piece  to  learn  in 
Bossuet  as  a  punishment-lesson, — "  Le  Cheval  Dompte." 
You  learned  it  instead  of  packing  up,  Shirley.  \\c  heard  no 
more  of  your  running  away.  Mr.  Moore  used  to  tease  you 
on  the  subject  for  a  year  afterwards.' 

'She  never  said  a  lesson  with  greater  spirit,'  subjoined 
Moore.  'She  then,  for  the  first  time,  gave  me  the  treat  of 
hearing  my  native  tongue  spoken  without  accent  by  an 
English  girl.' 


502  SHIRLEY 

I  She  was  as  sweet  as  summer-cherries  for  a  month  after- 
wards,' struck  in  Henry:  'a,  good  hearty  quarrel  always  left 
Shirley's  temper  better  than  it  found  it.1 

'  You  talk  of  me  as  if  I  were  not  present,'  observed  Miss 
Keeldar,  who  had  not  yet  lifted  her  face. 

'  Are  you  sure  you  arc  present  ? '  asked  Moore  :  '  there 
have  been  moments  since  my  arrival  here,  when  I  have  been 
tempted  to  inquire  of  the  lady  of  Fieldhead  if  she  knew  what 
had  become  of  my  former  pupil  ? ' 

'  She  is  here  now.' 

'  I  see  her,  and  humble  enough ;  but  I  would  neither 
advise  Harry,  nor  others,  to  believe  too  implicitly  in  the 
humility  which  one  moment  can  hide  its  blushing  face  like  a 
modest  little  child,  and  the  next  lift  it  pale  and  lofty  as  a 
marble  Juno.' 

'  One  man  in  times  of  old,  it  is  said,  imparted  vitality  to 
the  statue  he  had  chiselled.  Others  may  have  the  contrary 
gift  of  turning  life  to  stone.' 

Moore  paused  on  this  observation  before  he  replied  to  it. 
His  look,  at  once  struck  and  meditative,  said,  '  A  strange 
phrase  :  what  may  it  mean  ? '  He  turned  it  over  in  his  mind, 
with  thought  deep  and  slow,  as  some  German  pondering 
metaphysics. 

'  You  mean,'  he  said,  at  last,  '  that  some  men  inspire 
repugnance,  and  so  chill  the  kind  heart.1 

'  Ingenious ! '  responded  Shirley.  '  If  the  interpretation 
pleases  you,  you  are  welcome  to  hold  it  valid.  7  don't  care.' 

And  with  that  she  raised  her  head,  lofty  in  look,  and 
statue-like  in  hue,  as  Louis  had  described  it. 

'  Behold  the  metamorphosis  ! '  he  said  :  '  scarce  imagined 
ere  it  is  realized :  a  lowly  nymph  develops  to  an  inacces- 
sible goddess.  But  Henry  must  not  be  disappointed  of  his 
recitation,  and  Olympia  will  deign  to  oblige  him.  Let  us 
begin." 

I 1  have  forgotten  the  very  first  line.' 

1  Which  I  have  not.  My  memory,  if  a  slow,  is  a  retentive 
one.  I  acquire  deliberately  both  knowledge  and  liking  :  the 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  603 

acquisition  grows  into  my  brain,  and  the  sentiment  into  my 
breast ;  and  it  is  not  as  the  rapid  springing  produce  which, 
having  no  root  in  itself,  flourishes  verdurous  enough  for  a 
time,  but  too  soon  falls  withered  away.  Attention,  Henry ! 
Miss  Keeldar  consents  to  favour  you.  "Voyez  ce  Cheval 
ardent  et  impe'tueux,"  so  it  commences.' 

Miss  Keeldar  did  consent  to  make  the  effort ;  but  she 
soon  stopped. 

'  Unless  I  heard  the  whole  repeated,  I  cannot  continue 
it,'  she  said. 

'  Yet  it  was  quickly  learned,  "  soon  gained,  soon  gone,"  ' 
moralized  the  tutor.  He  recited  the  passage  deliberately, 
accurately,  with  slow,  impressive  emphasis. 

Shirley,  by  degrees,  inclined  her  ear  as  he  went  on.  Her 
face,  before  turned  from  him,  returned  towards  him.  When 
he  ceased,  she  took  the  word  up  as  if  from  his  lips  :  she  took 
his  very  tone ;  she  seized  his  very  accent ;  she  delivered  the 
periods  as  he  had  delivered  them  :  she  reproduced  his  man- 
ner, his  pronunciation,  his  expression. 

It  was  now  her  turn  to  petition. 

'  Recall  "  Le  Songe  d'Alhalie," '  she  entreated,  '  and 
say  it.' 

He  said  it  for  her ;  she  took  it  from  him  ;  she  found 
lively  excitement  in  the  pleasure  of  making  his  language  her 
own  :  she  asked  for  further  indulgence ;  all  the  old  school- 
pieces  were  revived,  and  with  them  Shirley's  old  school- 
days. 

He  had  gone  through  some  of  the  best  passages  of  Racine 
and  Corneille,  and  then  had  heard  the  echo  of  his  own  deep 
tones  in  the  girl's  voice,  that  modulated  itself  faithfully,  on 
his  : — '  Le  Chene  et  le  Roseau,'  that  most  beautiful  of 
La  Fontaine's  fables,  had  been  recited,  well  recited  by  the 
tutor,  and  the  pupil  had  animatedly  availed  herself  of  the 
lesson.  Perhaps  a  simultaneous  feeling  seized  them  now, 
that  their  enthusiasm  had  kindled  to  a  glow,  which  the 
slight  fuel  of  French  poetry  no  longer  sufficed  to  feed  ; 
perhaps  they  longed  for  a  trunk  of  English  oak  to  be 


504  SHIRLEY 

thrown  as  a  Yule  log  to  the  devouring  flame.  Moore  ob- 
served, '  And  these  are  our  best  pieces !  And  we  have 
nothing  more  dramatic,  nervous,  natural !  ' 

And  then  he  smiled  and  was  silent.  His  wrhole  nature 
seemed  serenely  alight :  he  stood  on  the  hearth,  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  mantel-piece,  musing  not  unblissfully. 

Twilight  was  closing  on  the  diminished  autumn  day : 
the  school-room  windows — darkened  with  creeping  plants, 
from  which  no  high  October  winds  had  as  yet  swept  the 
sere  foliage — admitted  scarce  a  gleam  of  sky ;  but  the  fire 
gave  light  enough  to  talk  by. 

And  now  Louis  Moore  addressed  his  pupil  in  French ; 
and  she  answered,  at  first,  with  laughing  hesitation  and  in 
broken  phrase  :  Moore  encouraged  while  he  corrected  her ; 
Henry  joined  in  the  lesson  ;  the  two  scholars  stood  opposite 
the  master,  their  arms  round  each  other's  waists  :  Tartar, 
who  long  since  had  craved  and  obtained  admission,  sat 
sagely  in  the  centre  of  the  rug,  staring  at  the  blaze  which 
burst  fitful  from  morsels  of  coal  among  the  red  cinders  :  the 
group  were  happy  enough,  but — 

'  Pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread  ; 
You  seize  the  flower — its  bloom  is  shed.' 

The  dull,  rumbling  sound  of  wheels  was  heard  on  the  pave- 
ment in  the  yard. 

'  It  is  the  carriage  returned,'  said  Shirley  ;  '  and  dinner 
must  be  just  ready,  and  I  am  not  dressed.' 

A  servant  came  in  with  Mr.  Moore's  candle  and  tea :  for 
the  tutor  and  his  pupil  usually  dined  at  luncheon  time. 

. '  Mr.  Sympson  and  the  ladies  are  returned,'  she  said, 
1  and  Sir  Philip  Nunnely  is  with  them.1 

'  How  you  did  start,  and  how  your  hand  trembled, 
Shirley ! '  said  Henry,  when  the  maid  had  closed  the  shutter 
and  was  gone.  '  But  I  know  why — don't  you,  Mr.  Moore? 
I  know  what  papa  intends.  He  is  a  little  ugly  man,  that 
Sir  Philip  :  I  wish  he  had  not  come  :  I  wish  sisters  and  all 
of  them  had  stayed  at  De  Walden  Hall  to  dine.  Shirley 


THE  FIRST  BLUE-STOCKING  505 

should  once  more  have  made  tea  for  you  and  me,  Mr. 
Moore,  and  we  would  have  had  a  happy  evening  of  it.' 

Moore  was  locking  up  his  desk,  and  putting  away  his 
St.  Pierre — '  That  was  your  plan  — was  it,  my  boy  ? ' 

'  Don't  you  approve  it,  sir  ? ' 

'  I  approve  nothing  Utopian.  Look  Life  in  its  iron 
face :  stare  Keality  out  of  its  brassy  countenance.  Make 
the  tea,  Henry  ;  I  shall  be  back  in  a  minute.' 

He  left  the  room  :  so  did  Shirley,  by  another  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

PH<EBE 

SHIRLEY  probably  got  on  pleasantly  with  Sir  Philip  that 
evening,  for  the  next  morning  she  came  down  in  one  of  her 
best  moods. 

'  Who  will  take  a  walk  with  me  ? '  she  asked,  after  break- 
fast. '  Isabella  and  Gertrude — will  you  ?  ' 

So  rare  was  such  an  invitation  from  Miss  Keeldar  to  her 
female  cousins  that  they  hesitated  before  they  accepted  it. 
Their  mamma,  however,  signifying  acquiescence  in  the 
project,  they  fetched  their  bonnets,  and  the  trio  set  out. 

It  did  not  suit  these  three  young  persons  to  be  thrown 
much  together :  Miss  Keeldar  liked  the  society  of  few  1  idies  : 
indeed,  she  had  a  cordial  pleasure  in  that  of  none  except 
Mrs.  Pryor  and  Caroline  Helstone.  She  was  civil,  kind, 
attentive  even  to  her  cousins ;  but  still  she  usually  had  little 
to  say  to  them.  In  the  sunny  mood  of  this  particular 
morning,  she  contrived  to  entertain  even  the  Misses 
Sympson.  Without  deviating  from  her  wonted  rule  of  dis- 
cussing with  them  only  ordinary  themes,  she  imparted  to 
these  themes  an  extraordinary  interest :  the  sparkle  of  her 
spirit  glanced  along  her  phrases. 

What  made  her  so  joyous  ?  All  the  cause  must  have 
been  in  herself.  The  day  was  not  bright ;  it  was  dim — a 
pale,  waning  autumn  day :  the  walks  through  the  dun 
woods  were  damp ;  the  atmosphere  was  heavy,  the  sky 
overcast ;  and  yet,  it  seemed  that  in  Shirley's  heart  lived  all 
the  light  and  azure  of  Italy,  as  all  its  fervour  laughed  in  her 
grey  English  eye. 

Some  directions  necessary  to  be  given  to  her  foreman, 


PHCEBE  507 

John,  delayed  her  behind  her  cousins  as  they  neared  Field- 
head  on  their  return  ;  perhaps  an  interval  of  twenty  minutes 
elapsed  between  her  separation  from  them  and  her  re- 
entrance  into  the  house  :  in  the  meantime  she  had  spoken 
to  John,  and  then  she  had  lingered  in  the  lane  at  the  gate. 
A  summons  to  luncheon  called  her  in  :  she  excused  herself 
from  the  meal,  and  went  upstairs. 

'  Is  not  Shirley  coming  to  luncheon  ? '  asked  Isabella : 
'  she  said  she  was  not  hungry.' 

An  hour  after,  as  she  did  not  quit  her  chamber,  one  of 
her  cousins  went  to  seek  her  there.  She  was  found  sitting 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand :  she 
looked  quite  pale,  very  thoughtful,  almost  sad. 

'  You  are  not  ill  ? '  was  the  question  put. 

'  A  little  sick,'  replied  Miss  Keeldar. 

Certainly  she  was  not  a  little  changed  from  what  she 
had  been  two  hours  before. 

This  change,  accounted  for  only  by  those  three  words, 
explained  no  otherwise  ;  this  change — wrhencesoever  spring- 
ing, effected  in  a  brief  ten  minutes — passed  like  no  light 
summer  cloud.  She  talked  when  she  joined  her  friends  at 
dinner,  talked  as  usual ;  she  remained  with  them  during  the 
evening  ;  when  again  questioned  respecting  her  health,  she 
declared  herself  perfectly  recovered  :  it  had  been  a  mere 
passing  faintness :  a  momentary  sensation,  not  worth  a 
thought :  yet  it  was  felt  there  was  a  difference  in  Shirley. 

The  next  day — the  day — the  week — the  fortnight  after — 
this  new  and  peculiar  shadow  lingered  on  the  countenance, 
in  the  manner  of  Miss  Keeldar.  A  strange  quietude  settled 
over  her  look,  her  movements,  her  very  voice.  The 
alteration  was  not  so  marked  as  to  court  or  permit  frequent 
questioning,  yet  it  was  there,  and  it  would  not  pass  away: 
it  hung  over  her  like  a  cloud  which  no  breeze  could  stir  or 
disperse.  Soon  it  became  evident  that  to  notice  this  change 
was  to  annoy  her.  First  she  shrunk  from  remark  ;  and,  if 
persisted  in,  she,  with  her  own  peculiar  hauteur,  repelled  it. 
'  Was  she  ill  ?  '  The  reply  came  with  decision. 


508  SHIBLEY 

'  I  am  tiot.' 

'Did  anything  weigh  on  her  mind?  Had.  anything 
happened  to  affect  her  spirits  ? ' 

She  scornfully  ridiculed  the  idea. 

1  What  did  they  mean  by  spirits  ?  She  had  no  spirits, 
black  or  white,  blue  or  grey,  to  affect.' 

'  Something  must  be  the  matter — she  was  so  altered.' 

'  She  supposed  she  had  a  right  to  alter  at  her  ease.  She 
knew  she  was  plainer :  if  it  suited  her  to  grow  ugly,  why 
need  others  fret  themselves  on  the  subject.' 

'  There  must  be  a  cause  for  the  change — what  was  it  ?  ' 

She  peremptorily  requested  to  be  let  alone. 

Then  she  would  make  every  effort  to  appear  quite  gay, 
and  she  seemed  indignant  at  herself  that  she  could  not 
perfectly  succeed  :  brief,  self-spurning  epithets  burst  from 
her  lips  when  alone.  '  Fool !  Coward  ! '  she  would  term 
herself.  '  Poltroon  !  '  she  would  say  :  '  if  you  must  tremble 
— tremble  in  secret !  Quail  where  no  eye  sees  you  !  ' 

'  How  dare  you  ' — she  would  ask  herself — '  how  dare  yon 
show  your  weakness  and  betray  your  imbecile  anxieties? 
Shake  them  off :  rise  above  them  :  if  you  cannot  do  this, 
hide  them.' 

And  to  hide  them  she  did  her  best.  She  once  more 
became  resolutely  lively  in  company.  When  weary  of  effort 
and  forced  to  relax,  she  sought  solitude  :  not  the  solitude  of 
her  chamber — she  refused  to  mope,  shut  up  between  four 
walls — but  that  wilder  solitude  which  lies  out  of  doors, 
and  which  she  could  chase,  mounted  on  Zoe,  her  mare. 
She  took  long  rides  of  half  a  day.  Her  uncle  disapproved, 
but  he  dared  not  remonstrate :  it  was  never  pleasant  to 
face  Shirley's  anger,  even  when  she  was  healthy  and  gay ; 
but  now  that  her  face  showed  thin,  and  her  large  eye 
looked  hollow,  there  was  something  in  the  darkening  of 
that  face  and  kindling  of  that  eye  which  touched  as  well  as 
alarmed. 

To  all  comparative  strangers  who,  unconscious  of  the 
alteration  in  her  spirits,  commented  on  the  alteration  in  her 


PHCEBE  609 

looks,  she  had  one  reply  :  '  I  am  perfectly  well :  I  have  not 
an  ailment.' 

And  health,  indeed,  she  must  have  had,  to  be  able  to 
bear  the  exposure  to  the  weather  she  now  encountered. 
Wet  or  fair,  calm  or  storm,  she  took  her  daily  ride  over 
Stilbro'  Moor,  Tartar  keeping  up  at  her  side,  with  his  wolf- 
like  gallop,  long  and  untiring. 

Twice — three  times,  the  eyes  of  gossips — those  eyes 
which  are  everywhere  :  in  the  closet  and  on  the  hill-top — 
noticed  that  instead  of  turning  on  Rushedge,  the  top-ridge 
of  Stilbro'  Moor,  she  rode  forwards  all  the  way  to  the  town. 
Scouts  were  not  wanting  to  mark  her  destination  there  ;  it 
was  ascertained  that  she  alighted  at  the  door  of  one  Mr. 
Pearson  Hall,  a  solicitor,  related  to  the  Vicar  of  Nunnely  : 
this  gentleman  and  his  ancestors  had  been  the  agents  rf  the 
Keeldar  family  for  generations  back  :  some  people  affirmed 
that  Miss  Keeldar  was  become  involved  in  business  specula- 
tions connected  with  Hollow's-mill ;  that  she  had  lost  money, 
and  was  constrained  to  mortgage  her  land  :  others  con- 
jectured that  she  was  going  to  be  married,  and  that  the 
settlements  were  preparing. 


Mr.  Moore  and  Henry  Sympson  were  together  in  the 
school-room  :  the  tutor  was  waiting  for  a  lesson  which  the 
pupil  seemed  busy  in  preparing. 

1  Henry,  make  haste  !  the  afternoon  is  getting  on.' 

'  Is  it,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Certainly.     Are  you  nearly  ready  with  that  lesson  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Not  nearly  ready  ?  ' 

'  I  have  not  construed  a  line." 

Mr.  Moore  looked  up :  the  boy's  tone  was  rather 
peculiar. 

'  The  task  presents  no  difficulties,  Henry ;  or,  if  it  does, 
bring  them  to  me  :  we  will  work  together.' 

'  Mr.  Moore,  I  can  do  no  work.' 


510  SHIKLEY 

'  My  boy,  you  are  ill.' 

'  Sir,  I  am  not  worse  in  bodily  health  than  usual,  but  my 
heart  is  full.' 

'  Shut  the  book.  Come  hither,  Harry.  Come  to  the 
fireside.' 

Harry  limped  forward  ;  his  tutor  placed  him  in  a  chair  : 
his  lips  were  quivering,  his  eyes  brimming.  He  laid  his 
crutch  on  the  floor,  bent  down  his  head,  and  wept. 

1  This  distress  is  not  occasioned  by  physical  pain,  you 
say,  Harry?  You  have  a  grief : — tell  it  me.' 

1  Sir,  I  have  such  a  grief  as  I  never  had  before.  I  wish 
it  could  be  relieved  in  some  way  :  I  can  hardly  bear  it.' 

'  Who  knows  but,  if  we  talk  it  over,  we  may  relieve  it  ? 
What  is  the  cause  ?  Whom  docs  it  concern  ?  ' 

1  The  cause,  sir,  is  Shirley  :  it  concerns  Shirley.' 

'  Does  it?  .  .  .  You  think  her  changed?' 

'  All  who  know  her  think  her  changed :  you  too,  Mr. 
Moore.' 

'  Not  seriously, — no.  I  see  no  alteration  but  such  as  a 
favourable  turn  might  repair  in  a  few  weeks  :  besides,  her 
own  word  must  go  for  something  :  she  says  she  is  well.' 

'  There  it  is,  sir  :  as  long  as  she  maintained  she  was  well, 
I  believed  her.  When  I  was  sad  out  of  her  sight,  I  soon 
recovered  spirits  in  her  presence.  Now  .  .  .' 

'  Well,  Harry,  now  .  .  .  ?  Has  she  said  anything  to 
you  ?  You  and  she  were  together  in  the  garden  two  hours 
this  morning :  I  saw  her  talking,  and  you  listening.  Now, 
my  dear  Harry  !  if  Miss  Keeldar  had  said  she  is  ill,  and 
enjoined  you  to  keep  her  secret,  do  not  obey  her.  For  her 
life's  sake,  avow  everything.  Speak,  my  boy !  ' 

'  Slic  say  she  is  ill !  I  believe,  sir,  if  she  were  dying,  she 
would  smile,  and  aver  "  Nothing  ails  me."  ' 

'What  have  you  learned,  then?  What  new  circum- 
stance .  .  .  ?  ' 

'  I  have  learned  that  she  has  just  made  her  will.' 

'  Made  her  will  ?  ' 

The  tutor  and  the  pupil  were  silent. 


PHGEBE  511 

'  She  told  you  that  ?  '  asked  Moore,  when  some  minutes 
had  elapsed. 

'  She  told  me  quite  cheerfully :  not  as  an  ominous  circum- 
stance, which  I  felt  it  to  be.  She  said  I  was  the  only  person 
besides  her  solicitor,  Pearson  Hall,  and  Mr.  Helstone  and 
Mr.  Yorke,  who  knew  anything  about  it ;  and  to  me,  she 
intimated,  she  wished  specially  to  explain  its  provisions.' 

'  Go  on,  Harry.' 

' "  Because," '  she  said,  looking  down  on  me  with  her 
beautiful  eyes, — oh  !  they  are  beautiful,  Mr.  Moore  !  I  love 
them, — I  love  her !  She  is  my  star !  Heaven  must  not 
claim  her  !  She  is  lovely  in  this  world,  and  fitted  for  this 
world.  Shirley  is  not  an  angel ;  she  is  a  woman,  and  she 
shall  live  with  men.  Seraphs  shall  not  have  her  !  Mr. 
Moore — if  one  of  the  "  sons  of  God,"  with  wings  wide  and 
bright  as  the  sky,  blue  and  sounding  as  the  sea,  having  seen 
that  she  was  fair,  descended  to  claim  her,  his  claim  should 
be  withstood  —withstood  by  me — boy  and  cripple  as  I 
am ! ' 

'  Henry  Sympson,  go  on,  when  I  tell  you.' 

'  "  Because,"  she  said,  "  if  I  made  no  will,  and  died  before 
you,  Harry,  all  my  property  would  go  to  you ;  and  I  do  not 
intend  that  it  should  be  so,  though  your  father  would  like  it. 
But  you,"  she  said,  "  will  have  his  whole  estate,  which  is 
large — larger  than  Fieldhead  ;  your  sisters  will  have  nothing, 
so  I  have  left  them  some  money  :  though  I  do  not  love  them, 
both  together,  half  so  much  as  I  love  one  lock  of  your  fair 
hair."  She  said  these  words,  and  she  called  me  her 
"  darling,"  and  let  me  kiss  her.  She  went  on  to  tell  me  that 
she  had  left  Caroline  Helstone  some  money  too ;  that  this 
manor-house,  with  its  furniture  and  books,  she  had  be- 
queathed to  me,  as  she  did  not  choose  to  take  the  old  family 
place  from  her  own  blood  ;  and  that  all  the  rest  of  her 
property,  amounting  to  about  twelve  thousand  pounds, 
exclusive  of  the  legacies  to  my  sisters  and  Miss  Helstone,  she 
had  willed,  not  to  me,  seeing  I  was  already  rich,  but  to  a 
good  man,  who  would  make  the  best  use  of  it  that  any 


512  SHIRLEY 

human  being  could  do :  a  man,  she  said,  that  was  both 
gentle  and  brave,  strong  and  merciful ;  a  man  that  might 
not  profess  to  be  pious,  but  she  knew  he  had  the  secret  of 
religion  pure  and  undefiled  before  God.  The  spirit  of  love 
and  peace  was  with  him  :  he  visited  the  fatherless  and 
widows  in  their  affliction,  and  kept  himself  unspotted  from 
the  world.  Then  she  asked,  "  Do  you  approve  what  I  have 
done,  Harry?"  I  could  not  answer, — my  tears  choked  me, 
as  they  do  now.' 

Mr.  Moore  allowed  his  pupil  a  moment  to  contend  with 
and  master  his  emotion  :  he  then  demanded  : — '  What  else 
did  she  say? ' 

1  When  I  had  signified  my  full  consent  to  the  conditions 
of  her  will,  she  told  me  I  was  a  generous  boy,  and  she  was 
proud  of  me :  "  And  now,"  she  added,  "  in  case  anything 
should  happen,  you  will  know  what  to  say  to  Malice  when 
she  comes  whispering  hard  things  in  your  ear,  insinuating 
that  Shirley  has  wronged  you ;  that  she  did  not  love  you. 
You  will  know  that  I  did  love  you,  Harry ;  that  no  sister 
could  have  loved  you  better,  my  own  treasure."  Mr.  Moore, 
sir,  when  I  remember  her  voice,  and  recall  her  look,  my 
heart  beats  as  if  it  would  break  its  strings.  She  may  go  to 
heaven  before  me — if  God  commands  it,  she  must;  but  the 
rest  of  my  life — and  my  life  will  not  be  long— I  am  glad  of 
that  now— shall  be  a  straight,  quick,  thoughtful  journey  in 
the  path  her  step  has  pressed.  I  thought  to  enter  the  vault 
of  the  Keeldars  before  her :  should  it  be  otherwise,  lay  my 
coffin  by  Shirley's  side.' 

Moore  answered  him  with  a  weighty  calm,  that  offered  a 
strange  contrast  to  the  boy's  perturbed  enthusiasm. 

'  You  are  wrong,  both  of  you — you  harm  each  other.  If 
youth  once  falls  under  the  influence  of  a  shadowy  terror,  it 
imagines  there  will  never  be  full  sunlight  again — its  first 
calamity  it  fancies  will  last  a  lifetime?  What  more  did  she 
say  ?  Anything  more  ? ' 

'  We  settled  one  or  two  family  points  between  ourselves.' 

'  I  should  rather  like  to  know  what ' 


PHCEBE  513 

'  But,  Mr.  Moore,  you  smile — I  could  not  smile  to  see 
Shirley  in  such  a  mood.' 

1  My  boy,  I  am  neither  nervous,  nor  poetic,  nor  inexperi- 
enced. I  see  things  as  they  are :  you  don't  as  yet.  Tell 
me  these  family  points.' 

'Only,  sir,  she  asked  me  whether  I  considered  myself 
most  of  a  Keeldar  or  a  Sympson ;  and  I  answered  I  was 
Keeldar  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  and  to  the  marrow  of  the 
bones.  She  said  she  was  glad  of  it ;  for,  besides  her,  I  was 
the  only  Keeldar  left  in  England :  and  then  we  agreed  on 
some  matters.' 

•  Well  ? ' 

'  Well,  sir,  that  if  I  lived  to  inherit  my  father's  estate, 
and  her  house,  I  was  to  take  the  name  of  Keeldar,  and  to 
make  Fieldhead  my  residence.  Henry  Shirley  Keeldar  I 
said  I  would  be  called :  and  I  will.  Her  name  and  her 
manor-house  are  ages  old,  and  Sympson  and  Sympson-grove 
are  of  yesterday.' 

'  Come,  you  are  neither  of  you  going  to  heaven  yet.  I 
have  the  best  hopes  of  you  both,  with  your  proud  distinctions 
— a  pair  of  half -fledged  eaglets.  Now,  what  is  your  infer- 
ence from  all  you  have  told  me?  put  it  into  words.' 

'  That  Shirley  thinks  she  is  going  to  die.' 

'  She  referred  to  her  health  ? ' 

'  Not  once  ;  but  I  assure  you  she  is  wasting  :  her  hands 
are  growing  quite  thin,  and  so  is  her  cheek.' 

'  Do3S  she  ever  complain  to  your  mother  or  sisters  ? ' 

1  Never.  She  laughs  at  them  when  they  question  her. 
Mr.  Moore,  she  is  a  strange  being — so  fair  and  girlish  :  not 
a  man-like  woman  at  all— not  an  Amazon,  and  yet  lifting  her 
head  above  both  help  and  sympathy.' 

'  Do  you  know  where  she  is  now,  Henry  ?  Is  she  in 
the  house,  or  riding  out  ?  ' 

'  Surely  not  out,  sir — it  rains  fast.' 

'True:  which,  however,  is  no  guarantee  that  she  is  not 
at  this  moment  cantering  over  Kushedge.  Of  late  she  has 
never  permitted  weather  to  be  a  hindrance  to  her  rides.' 


514  SHIELEY 

1  You  remember,  Mr.  Moore,  how  wet  and  stormy  it  was 
last  Wednesday?  so  wild,  indeed,  that  she  would  not  per- 
mit Zoe  to  be  saddled ;  yet  the  blast  she  thought  too  tem- 
pestuous for  her  mare,  she  herself  faced  on  foot ;  that 
afternoon  she  walked  nearly  as  far  as  Nunnely.  I  asked 
her,  when  she  came  in,  if  she  was  not  afraid  of  taking  cold. 
"  Not  I,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be  too  much  good  luck  for  me.  I 
don't  know,  Harry ;  but  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
me  would  be  to  take  a  good  cold  and  fever,  and  so  pass  off 
like  other  Christians."  She  is  reckless,  you  see,  sir.' 

'  Reckless  indeed  !  Go  and  find  out  where  she  is ;  and 
if  you  can  get  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her,  without 
attracting  attention,  request  her  to  come  here  a  minute.' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

He  snatched  his  crutch,  and  started  up  to  go. 

'  Harry  !  ' 

He  returned. 

'  Do  not  deliver  the  message  formally.  Word  it  as,  in 
former  days,  you  would  have  worded  an  ordinary  summons 
to  the  school -room.' 

'  I  see,  sir ;  she  will  be  more  likely  to  obey.' 

'  And  Harry ' 

'Sir?' 

'  I  will  call  you  when  I  want  you :  till  then,  you  are 
dispensed  from  lessons.' 

He  departed.     Mr.  Moore,  left  alone,  rose  from  his  desk. 

'I  can  be  very  cool  and  very  supercilious  with  Henry,' 
he  said.  '  I  can  seem  to  make  light  of  his  apprehensions, 
and  look  down  "  du  haut  de  ma  grandeur  "  on  his  youthful 
ardour.  To  him  I  can  speak  as  if,  in  my  eyes,  they  were 
both  children.  Let  me  sec  if  I  can  keep  up  the  same  role 
with  her.  I  have  known  the  moment  when  I  seemed  about 
to  forget  it :  when  Confusion  and  Submission  seemed  about 
to  crush  me  with  their  soft  tyranny ;  when  my  tongue 
faltered,  and  I  have  almost,  let  the  mantle  drop,  and  stood  in 
her  presence,  not  master — no — but  something  else.  I  trust 
I  shall  never  so  play  the  fool :  it  is  well  for  a  Sir  Philip 


PHCEBE  515 

Nunnely  to  redden  when  he  meets  her  eye  :  he  may  permit 
himself  the  indulgence  of  submission — he  may  even  without 
disgrace  suffer  his  hand  to  tremble  when  it  touches  hers ; 
but  if  one  of  her  farmers  were  to  show  himself  susceptible 
and  sentimental,  he  would  merely  prove  his  need  of  a  strait- 
waistcoat.  So  far  I  have  always  done  very  well.  She  has 
sat  near  me,  and  I  have  not  shaken — more  than  my  desk. 
I  have  encountered  her  looks  and  smiles  like — why,  like 
a  tutor,  as  I  am.  Her  hand  I  never  yet  touched — never 
underwent  that  test.  Her  farmer  or  her  footman  I  am  not 
— no  serf  nor  servant  of  hers  have  I  ever  been  :  but  I  am 
poor,  and  it  behoves  me  to  look  to  my  self-respect — not  to 
compromise  an  inch  of  it.  What  did  she  mean  by  that  allusion 
to  the  cold  people  who  petrify  flesh  to  marble  ?  It  pleased 
me — I  hardly  know  why— I  would  not  permit  myself  to 
inquire — I  never  do  indulge  in  scrutiny  either  of  her  language 
or  countenance ;  for  if  I  did,  I  should  sometimes  forget 
Common  Sense  and  believe  in  Eomance.  A  strange,  secret 
ecstasy  steals  through  my  veins  at  moments :  I'll  not 
encourage — I'll  not  remember  it.  I  am  resolved,  as  long 
as  may  be,  to  retain  the  right  to  say  with  Paul — "  I  am  not 
mad,  but  speak  forth  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness."  ' 

He  paused — listening. 

1  Will  she  come,  or  will  she  not  come  ? '  he  inquired. 
'  How  will  she  take  the  message  ?  naively  or  disdainfully  ? 
like  a  child  or  like  a  queen  ?  Both  characters  are  in  her 
nature. 

'  If  she  comes,  what  shall  I  say  to  her  ?  How  account, 
firstly,  for  the  freedom  of  the  request  ?  Shall  I  apologize  to 
her  ?  I  could  in  all  humility  ;  but  would  an  apology  tend 
to  place  us  in  the  positions  we  ought  relatively  to  occupy  in 
this  matter?  I  must  keep  up  the  professor,  otherwise— I 
hear  a  door ' 

He  waited.     Many  minutes  passed. 

1  She  will  refuse  me.  Henry  is  entreating  her  to  come  : 
she  declines.  My  petition  is  presumption  in  her  eyes :  let 
her  only  come,  I  can  teach  her  to  the  contrary.  I  would 

18 


516  SHIELEY 

rather  she  were  a  little  perverse — it  will  steel  me.  I  prefer 
her,  cuirassed  in  pride,  armed  with  a  taunt.  Her  scorn 
startles  me  from  my  dreams — I  stand  up  myself.  A 
sarcasm  from  her  eyes  or  lips  puts  strength  into  every 
nerve  and  sinew  I  have.  Some  step  approaches,  and  not 
Henry's.  .  .  .' 

The  door  unclosed  ;  Miss  Keeldar  came  in.  The  message, 
it  appeared,  had  found  her  at  her  needle :  she  brought  her 
work  in  her  hand.  That  day  she  had  not  been  riding  out : 
she  had  evidently  passed  it  quietly.  She  wore  her  neat  in- 
door dress  and  silk  apron.  This  was  no  Thalestris  from  the 
fields,  but  a  quiet  domestic  character  from  the  fireside. 
Mr.  Moore  had  her  at  advantage :  he  should  have  addressed 
her  at  once  in  solemn  accents,  and  with  rigid  mien  ;  perhaps 
he  would,  had  she  looked  saucy ;  but  her  air  never  showed 
less  of  cranerie ;  a  soft  kind  of  youthful  shyness  depressed 
her  eyelid  and  mantled  on  her  cheek.  The  tutor  stood 
silent. 

She  made  a  full  stop  between  the  door  and  his  desk. 

'  Did  you  want  me,  sir  ?  '  she  asked. 

1 1  ventured,  Miss  Keeldar,  to  send  for  you — that  is,  to 
ask  an  interview  of  a  few  minutes.' 

She  waited  :  she  plied  her  needle. 

'  Well,  sir  '  (not  lifting  her  eyes) — '  what  about  ? ' 

'  Be  seated  first.  The  subject  I  would  broach  is  one  of 
some  moment :  perhaps  I  have  hardly  a  right  to  approach 
it :  it  is  possible  I  ought  to  frame  an  apology  :  it  is  possible 
no  apology  can  excuse  me.  The  liberty  I  have  taken  arises 
from  a  conversation  with  Henry.  The  boy  is  unhappy  aboufc 
your  health  :  all  your  friends  are  unhappy  on  that  subject. 
Jt  is  of  your  health  I  would  speak.' 

'  I  am  quite  well,'  she  said  briefly. 

'  Yet  changed.' 

'  That  matters  to  none  but  myself.     We  all  change.' 

'  Will  you  sit  down  ?  Formerly,  Miss  Keeldar,  I  had 
some  influence  with  you — have  I  any  now?  May  I  feel  that 
what  I  am  saying  is  not  accounted  positive  presumption  ?  ' 


PHCEBE  517 

'  Let  me  read  some  French,  Mr.  Moore,  or  I  will  even 
take  a  spell  at  the  Latin  grammar,  and  let  us  proclaim  a 
truce  to  all  sanitary  discussions.' 

'  No — no  :  it  is  time  there  were  discussions.' 

'  Discuss  away,  then,  but  do  not  choose  me  for  your  text; 
I  am  a  healthy  subject.' 

'  Do  you  not  think  it  wrong  to  affirm  and  reaffirm  what 
is  substantially  untrue  ? ' 

'  I  say  I  am  well :  I  have  neither  cough,  pain,  nor  fever.' 

'  Is  there  no  equivocation  in  that  assertion  ?  Is  it  the 
direct  truth  ? ' 

1  The  direct  truth.' 

Louis  Moore  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

'  I  can  myself/  he  said,  '  trace  no  indications  of  actual 
disease ;  but  why,  then,  are  you  altered  ?  ' 

'  Am  I  altered  ? ' 

'  We  will  try  :  we  will  seek  a  proof.' 

1  How  ? ' 

' I  ask,  in  the  first  place,  do  you  sleep  as  you  used  to?' 

'  I  do  not :  but  it  is  not  because  I  am  ill.' 

1  Have  you  the  appetite  you  once  had  ?  ' 

'  No  :  but  it  is  not  because  I  am  ill.' 

1  You  remember  this  little  ring  fastened  to  my  watch- 
chain  ?  It  was  my  mother's,  and  is  too  small  to  pass  the 
joint  of  my  little  finger.  You  have  many  a  time  sportively 
purloined  it :  it  fitted  your  forefinger.  Try  now.' 

She  permitted  the  test :  the  ring  dropped  from  the  wasted 
little  hand.  Louis  picked  it  up,  and  re-attached  it  to  the 
chain.  An  uneasy  flush  coloured  his  brow.  Shirley  again 
said  : — '  It  is  not  because  I  am  ill.' 

'  Not  only  have  you  lost  sleep,  appetite,  and  flesh,'  pro- 
ceeded Moore,  '  but  your  spirits  are  always  at  ebb  :  besides, 
there  is  a  nervous  alarm  in  your  eye — a  nervous  disquiet  in 
your  manner  :  these  peculiarities  were  not  formerly  yours.' 

'  Mr.  Moore,  we  will  pause  here.  You  have  exactly  hit 
it :  I  am  nervous.  Now,  talk  of  something  else.  What  wet 
weather  we  have  !  Steady,  pouring  rain  t ' 


518  SHIRLEY 

'  You  nervous !  Yes :  and  if  Miss  Keeldar  is  nervous, 
it  is  not  without  a  cause.  Let  me  reach  it.  Let  me  look 
nearer.  The  ailment  is  not  physical :  I  have  suspected  that. 
It  came  in  one  moment.  I  know  the  day.  I  noticed  the 
change.  Your  pain  is  mental.' 

'  Not  at  all :  it  is  nothing  so  dignified — merely  nervous. 
Oh  !  dismiss  the  topic.' 

'  When  it  is  exhausted :  not  till  then.  Nervous  alarms 
should  always  be  communicated,  that  they  may  be  dissipated. 
I  wish  I  had  the  gift  of  persuasion,  and  could  incline  you  to 
speak  willingly.  I  believe  confession,  in  your  case,  would 
be  half  equivalent  to  cure.' 

'  No,'  said  Shirley,  abruptly :  '  I  wish  that  were  at  all 
probable  ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  is  not.' 

She  suspended  her  work  a  moment.  She  was  now  seated. 
Besting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  she  leaned  her  head  on  her 
hand.  Mr.  Moore  looked  as  if  he  felt  he  had  at  last  gained 
some  fool-ing  in  this  difficult  path.  She  was  serious,  and  in 
her  wish  was  implied  an  important  admission ;  after  that, 
she  could  no  longer  affirm  that  nothing  ailed  her. 

The  tutor  allowed  her  some  minutes  for  repose  and 
reflection,  ere  he  returned  to  the  charge :  once,  his  lips 
moved  to  speak  ;  but  he  thought  better  of  it,  and  prolonged 
the  pause.  Shirley  lifted  her  eye  to  his  :  had  he  betrayed 
injudicious  emotion,  perhaps  obstinate  persistence  in  silence 
would  have  been  the  result;  but  he  looked  calm,  strong, 
trustworthy. 

'  I  had  better  tell  you  than  my  aunt,'  she  said,  '  or  than 
my  cousins,  or  my  uncle  :  they  would  all  make  such  a  bustle 
— and  it  is  that  very  bustle  I  dread ;  the  alarm,  the  flurry, 
the  &clat  :  in  short,  I  never  liked  to  be  the  centre  of  a  small 
domestic  whirlpool.  You  can  bear  a  little  shock — eh  ? ' 

'  A  great  one,  if  necessary.' 

Not  a  muscle  of  the  man's  frame  moved,  and  yet  his 
large  heart  beat  fast  in  his  deep  chest.  What  was  she  going 
to  tell  him  ?  Was  irremediable  mischief  done  ? 

'  Had  I  thought  it  right  tc  go  to  you,  I  would  never  have 


519 

tnade  a  secret  of  the  matter  one  moment,'  she  continued : 
'  I  would  have  told  you  at  once,  and  asked  advice.' 

'  Why  was  it  not  right  to  come  to  me  ?  ' 

1  It  might  be  right — I  do  not  mean  that ;  but  I  could  not 
do  it.  I  seemed  to  have  no  title  to  trouble  you  :  the  mishap 
concerned  me  only — I  wanted  to  keep  it  to  myself,  and 
people  will  not  let  me.  I  tell  you,  I  hate  to  be  an  object  of 
worrying  attea^ion,  or  a  theme  for  village  gossip.  Besides, 
it  may  pass  away  without  result — God  knows ! ' 

Moore,  though  tortured  with  suspense,  did  not  demand  a 
quick  explanation  ;  he  suffered  neither  gesture,  glance,  nor 
word,  to  betray  impatience.  His  tranquillity  tranquillized 
Shirley  ;  his  confidence  reassured  her. 

'  Great  effects  may  spring  from  trivial  causes,'  she  re- 
marked, as  she  loosened  a  bracelet  from  her  wrist ;  then, 
unfastening  her  sleeve,  and  partially  turning  it  up, — '  Look 
here,  Mr.  Moore.' 

She  showed  a  mark  in  her  white  arm  ;  rather  a  deep 
though  healed-up  indentation :  something  between  a  burn 
and  a  cut. 

'  I  would  not  show  that  to  anyone  in  B rial-field  but  you, 
because  you  can  take  it  quietly.' 

'  Certainly  there  is  nothing  in  the  little  mark  to  shock  : 
its  history  will  explain.' 

'  Small  as  it  is,  it  has  taken  my  sleep  away,  and  made 
me  nervous,  thin,  and  foolish  ;  because,  on  account  of  that 
little  mark,  I  am  obliged  to  look  forward  to  a  possibility  that 
has  its  terrors.' 

The  sleeve  wras  readjusted  ;  the  bracelet  replaced. 

'Do  you  know  that  you  try  me?'  he  said  smiling. 
'I  am  a  patient  sort  of  man,  but  my  pulse  is  quicken- 
ing.' 

'  Whatever  happens,  you  will  befriend  me,  Mr.  Moore. 
You  will  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  self-possession,  and 
not  leave  me  at  the  mercy  of  agitated  cowards?  ' 

'  T  make  no  promise  now.  Tell  me  the  tale,  and  then 
exact  \vhnt  pledge  you  will.' 


520  SHIBLEY 

1  Ifc  is  a  very  shoi  t  tale.  I  took  a  walk  with  Isabella  and 
Gertrude  one  day,  about  three  weeks  ago.  They  reached 
home  before  me :  I  stayed  behind  to  speak  to  John. 
After  leaving  him,  I  pleased  myself  with  lingering  in  the 
lane,  where  all  was  very  still  and  shady :  I  was  tired  of 
chattering  to  the  girls,  and  in  no  hurry  to  rejoin  them.  As 
I  stood  leaning  against  the  gate-pillar,  thinking  some  very 
happy  thoughts  about  my  future  life — for  that  morning  I 
imagined  that  events  were  beginning  to  turn  as  I  had  long 
wished  them  to  turn ' 

'  Ah  !  Nunnely  had  been  with  her  the  evening  before  ! ' 
thought  Moore,  parenthetically. 

'  I  heard  a  panting  sound  ;  a  dog  came  running  up  the 
lane.  I  know  most  of  the  dogs  in  this  neighbourhood ;  it 
was  Phoebe,  one  of  Mr.  Sam  Wynne's  pointers.  The  poor 
creature  ran  with  her  head  clown,  her  tongue  hanging  out; 
she  looked  as  if  bruised  and  beaten  all  over.  I  called  her  ; 
I  meant  to  coax  her  into  the  house,  and  give  her  some  water 
and  dinner ;  I  felt  sure  she  had  been  ill-used  :  Mr.  Sam 
often  flogs  his  pointers  cruelly.  She  was  too  flurried  to 
know  me ;  and  when  I  attempted  to  pat  her  head,  she 
turned  and  snatched  at  my  arm.  She  bit  it  so  as  to  draw 
blood,  then  ran  panting  on.  Directly  after,  Mr.  Wynne's 
keeper  came  up,  carrying  a  gun.  He  asked  if  I  had  seen  a 
dog,  I  told  him  I  had  seen  Phoebe. 

'  "  You  had  better  chain  up  Tartar,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
"  and  tell  your  people  to  keep  within  the  house  ;  I  am  after 
Phoebe  to  shoot  her,  and  the  groom  is  gone  another  way. 
She  is  raging  mad."  ' 

Mr.  Moore  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  folded  his  arms 
across  his  chest ;  Miss  Keeldar  resumed  her  square  of  silk 
canvas,  and  continued  the  creation  of  a  wreath  of  Parmese 
violets. 

'  And  you  told  no  one,  sought  no  help,  no  cure :  you 
would  not  come  to  me  ?  ' 

'  I  got  as  far  as  the  school-room  door ;  there  my  courage 
failed  :  I  preferred  to  cushion  the  matter.' 


PHCEBE  521 

'  Why  ?  What  can  I  demand  better  in  this  world  than 
to  be  of  use  to  you  ? ' 

'  I  had  no  claim.' 

'  Monstrous  !     And  you  did  nothing  ? ' 

'  Yes :  I  walked  straight  into  the  laundry,  where  they 
are  ironing  most  of  the  week,  now  that  I  have  so  many 
guests  in  the  house.  While  the  maid  was  busy  crimping 
or  starching,  I  took  an  Italian  iron  from  the  fire,  and 
applied  the  light  scarlet  glowing  tip  to  my  arm  :  I  bored 
it  well  in  :  it  cauterized  the  little  wound.  Then  I  went 
upstairs.' 

1 1  dare  say  you  never  once  groaned  ? ' 

1 1  am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  was  very  miserable.  Not 
firm  or  tranquil  at  all,  I  think  :  there  was  no  calm  in  my 
mind.' 

'  There  was  calm  in  your  person.  I  remember  listening 
the  whole  time  we  sat  at  luncheon  to  hear  if  you  moved  in 
the  room  above  :  all  was  quiet.' 

'  I  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  wishing  Phoebe  had 
not  bitten  me.' 

'  And  alone  !     You  like  solitude. ' 

1  Pardon  me.' 

'  You  disdain  sympathy.' 

'  Do  I,  Mr.  Moore  ?  ' 

'  With  your  powerful  mind,  you  must  feel  independent 
of  help,  of  advice,  of  society.' 

'  So  be  it — since  it  pleases  you.' 

She  smiled.  She  pursued  her  embroidery  carefully  and 
quickly ;  but  her  eyelash  twinkled,  and  then  it  glittered, 
and  then  a  drop  fell. 

Mr.  Moore  leaned  forward  on  his  desk,  moved  his  chair, 
altered  his  attitude. 

'  If  it  is  not  so,'  he  asked,  with  a  peculiar  mellow  change 
in  his  voice,  '  how  is  it,  then  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'  You  do  know,  but  you  won't  speak :  all  must  be  locked 
up  in  yourself.' 


522  SHIRLEY 

'  Because  it  is  not  worth  sharing.' 

1  Because  nobody  can  give  the  high  price  you  require  for 
your  confidence.  Nohody  is  rich  enough  to  purchase  it. 
Nobody  has  the  honour,  the  intellect,  the  power  you  demand 
in  your  adviser.  There  is  not  a  shoulder  in  England  on 
which  you  would  rest  your  hand  for  support — far  less  a 
bosom  which  you  would  permit  to  pillow  your  head.  Of 
course  you  must  live  alone.' 

'  I  can  live  alone,  if  need  be.  But  the  question  is  not 
how  to  live— but  how  to  die  alone.  That  strikes  me  in  a 
more  grisly  light.' 

'  You  apprehend  the  effects  of  the  virus You 

anticipate  an  indefinitely  threatening,  dreadful  doom ? ' 

She  bowed. 

'  You  are  very  nervous  and  womanish.' 

'  You  complimented  me  two  minutes  since  on  my 
powerful  mind.' 

'  You  are  very  womanish.  If  the  whole  affair  were  coolly 
examined  and  discussed,  I  feel  assured  it  would  turn  out 
that  there  is  no  danger  of  your  dying  at  all.' 

'  Amen  !  I  am  very  willing  to  live,  if  it  please  God.  I 
have  felt  life  sweet.' 

'  How  can  it  be  otherwise  than  sweet  with  your  endow- 
ments and  nature  ?  Do  you  truly  expect  that  you  will  be 
seized  with  hydrophobia,  and  die  raving  mud  ?  ' 

'  I  expect  it,  and  have  feared  it.  Just  now,  I  fear 
nothing.' 

'  Nor  do  I,  on  your  account.  I  doubt  whether  the 
smallest  particle  of  virus  mingled  with  your  blood  :  and  if 
it  did,  let  me  assure  you  that — young,  healthy,  faultlessly 
sound  as  you  are — no  harm  will  ensue.  For  the  rest,  I 
shall  inquire  whether  the  dog  was  really  mad.  I  hold  she 
was  not  mad.' 

'  Tell  nobody  that  she  bit  me.' 

'  Why  should  I,  when  I  believe  the  bite  innocuous  as  a 
cut  of  this  penknife  ?  Make  yourself  easy  :  I  am  easy, 
thougli  I  value  your  life  as  much  as  I 'do  my  own  chance  of 
happiness  in  eternity.  Look  up.' 


PHCEBE  523 

'Why,  Mr.  Moore?' 

'  I  wish  to  see  if  you  are  cheered.  Put  your  work  down : 
raise  your  head.' 

'  There ' 

'  Look  at  me.     Thank  you  !     And  is  the  cloud  broken  ? ' 

'  I  fear  nothing.' 

'  Is  your  mind  restored  to  its  own  natural  sunny  clime  ? ' 

'  I  am  very  content ;  but  I  want  your  promise.' 

'  Dictate.' 

'  You  know,  in  case  the  worst  I  have  feared  should 
happen,  they  will  smother  me.  You  need  not  smile :  they 
will — they  always  do.  My  uncle  will  be  full  of  horror, 
weakness,  precipitation ;  and  that  is  the  only  expedient 
which  will  suggest  itself  to  him.  Nobody  in  the  house  will 
he  self-possessed  but  you  :  now  promise  to  befriend  me— to 
keep  Mr.  Sympson  away  from  me— not  to  let  Henry  come 
near,  lest  I  should  hurt  him.  Mind — mind  that  you  take 
care  of  yourself,  too  :  but  I  shall  not  injure  you,  I  know  I 
shall  not.  Lock  the  chamber-door  against  the  surgeons — 
turn  them  out,  if  they  get  in.  Let  neither  the  young  nor  the 
old  MacTurk  lay  a  finger  on  me ;  nor  Mr.  Greaves,  their 
colleague  ;  and,  lastly,  if  I  give  trouble,  with  your  own  hand 
administer  to  me  a  strong  narcotic  :  such  a  sure  dose  of 
laudanum  as  shall  leave  no  mistake.  Promise  to  do  this.' 

Moore  left  his  desk,  and  permitted  himself  the  recreation 
of  one  or  two  turns  through  the  room.  Stopping  behind 
Shirley's  chair,  he  bent  over  her,  and  said,  in  a  low,  emphatic 
voice,  '  I  promise  all  you  ask — without  comment,  without 
reservation.' 

'  If  female  help  is  needed,  call  in  my  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Gill  :  let  her  lay  me  out,  if  I  die.  She  is  attached  to  me. 
She  wronged  me  again  and  again,  and  again  and  again  I 
forgave  her.  She  now  loves  me,  and  would  not  defraud  me 
of  a  pin  :  confidence  has  made  her  honest;  forbearance  has 
made  her  kindhearted.  At  this  day,  I  can  trust  both  her 
integrity,  her  courage,  and  her  affection.  Call  her;  but 
keep  my  good  aunt  and  my  timid  cousins  away.  Once 
more,  promise.' 


524  SHIRLEY 

'  I  promise.' 

'  That  is  good  in  you,'  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  as  he 
bent  above  her,  and  smiling. 

1  Is  it  good  ?    Does  it  comfort  ? ' 

'Very  much.' 

'  I  will  be  with  you — I  and  Mrs.  Gill  only — in  any,  in 
every  extremity  where  calm  and  fidelity  are  needed.  No 
rash  or  coward  hand  shall  meddle.' 

'  Yet  you  think  me  childish?' 

'  I  do.' 

'  Ah  !  you  despise  me.' 

1  Do  we  despise  children  ?  ' 

'  In  fact,  I  am  neither  so  strong,  nor  have  I  such  pride 
in  my  strength,  as  people  think,  Mr.  Moore  ;  nor  am  I  so 
regardless  of  sympathy ;  but  when  I  have  any  grief,  I  fear 
to  impart  it  to  those  I  love,  lest  it  should  pain  them ; 
and  to  those  whom  I  view  with  indifference,  I  cannot  con- 
descend to  complain.  After  all,  you  should  not  taunt  me 
with  being  childish ;  for  if  you  were  as  unhappy  as  I  have 
been  for  the  last  three  weeks,  you  too  would  want  some 
friend.' 

'  We  all  want  a  friend,  do  we  not  ?  ' 

'  All  of  us  that  have  anything  good  in  our  natures.' 

1  Well,  you  have  Caroline  Helstone.' 

'  Yes.  .  .  .  And  you  have  Mr.  Hall.' 

'  Yes.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Pryor  is  a  wise,  good  woman :  she  can 
counsel  you  when  you  need  counsel.' 

'  For  your  part  you  have  your  brother  Robert.' 

'  For  any  right-hand  defections,  there  is  the  Rev.  Mathew- 
son  Helstone,  M.A.,  to  lean  upon  ;  for  any  left-hand  fallings- 
off,  there  is  Hiram  Yorke,  Esq.  Both  elders  pay  you 
homage.' 

'  I  never  saw  Mrs.  Yorke  so  motherly  to  any  young  man 
as  she  is  to  you.  I  don't  know  how  you  have  won  her  heart ; 
but  she  is  more  tender  to  you  than  she  is  to  her  own  sons. 
You  have,  besides,  your  sister,  Hortense.' 

'It  appears  we  are  both  well  provided.' 


PHCEBE  525 

'  It  appears  so.' 

'  How  thankful  we  ought  to  be  I ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  How  contented ! ' 

'  Yes.' 

1  For  my  part,  I  am  almost  contented  just  now,  and  very 
thankful.  Gratitude  is  a  divine  emotion :  it  fills  the  heart, 
but  not  to  bursting :  it  warms  it,  but  not  to  fever.  I  like  to 
taste  leisurely  of  bliss :  devoured  in  haste,  I  do  not  know  its 
flavour.' 

Still  leaning  on  the  back  of  Miss  Keeldar's  chair,  Moore 
watched  the  rapid  motion  of  her  fingers,  as  the  green  and 
purple  garland  grew  beneath  them.  After  a  prolonged  pause 
he  again  asked, '  Is  the  shadow  quite  gone  ?  ' 

'  Wholly.  As  I  was  two  hours  since,  and  as  I  am 
now,  are  two  different  states  of  existence.  I  believe,  Mr. 
Moore,  griefs  and  fears  nursed  in  silence  grow  like  Titan 
infants.' 

'  You  will  cherish  such  feelings  no  more  in  silence  ?  ' 

'  Not  if  I  dare  speak.' 

'  In  using  the  word  "  dare,"  to  whom  do  you  allude  ? ' 

'  To  you.' 

'  How  is  it  applicable  to  me  ?  ' 

'  On  account  of  your  austerity  and  shyness.' 

1  Why  am  I  austere  and  shy  ? ' 

1  Because  you  are  proud.' 

'  Why  am  I  proud  ?  ' 

'  I  should  like  to  know :  will  you  be  good  enough  to 
tell  me  ? ' 

'  Perhaps,  because  I  am  poor,  for  one  reason  :  poverty 
and  pride  often  go  together.' 

'  That  is  such  a  nice  reason  :  I  should  be  charmed  to 
discover  another  that  would  pair  with  it.  Mate  that  turtle, 
Mr.  Moore.' 

'  Immediately.  What  do  you  think  of  marrying  to  sober 
Poverty  many-tinted  Caprice  ? ' 

'  Are  you  capricious  ? ' 


526  SHIKLEY 

'  You  are.' 

'  A  libel.  I  am  steady  as  a  rock :  fixed  as  the  Polar 
Star.' 

'  I  look  out  at  some  early  hour  of  the  day,  and  see  a  fine 
perfect  rainbow,  bright  with  promise,  gloriously  spanning  the 
beclouded  welkin  of  life.  An  hour  afterwards  I  look  again 
— half  the  arch  is  gone,  and  the  rest  is  faded.  Still  later,  the 
stern  sky  denies  that  it  ever  wore  so  benign  a  symbol  of 
hope.' 

1  Well,  Mr.  Moore,  you  should  contend  against  these 
changeful  humours  :  they  are  your  besetting  sin.  One  never 
knows  where  to  have  you.' 

'  Miss  Keeldar,  I  had  once — for  two  years — a  pupil  who 
grew  very  dear  to  me.  Henry  is  dear,  but  she  was  dearer. 
Henry  never  gives  me  trouble ;  she — well — she  did.  I 
think  she  vexed  me  twenty-three  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four — 

1  She  was  never  with  you  above  three  hours,  or  at  the 
most  six  at  a  time.' 

'  She  sometimes  spilled  the  draught  from  my  cup,  and 
stole  the  food  from  my  plate  ;  and  when  she  had  kept  me 
unfed  for  a  day  (and  that  did  not  suit  me,  for  I  am  a  man 
accustomed  to  take  my  meals  with  reasonable  relish,  and  to 
ascribe  due  importance  to  the  rational  enjoyment  of  creatui'e 

comforts) ' 

know  you  do.  I  can  tell  what  sort  of  dinners  you 
like  best  —perfectly  well.  I  know  precisely  the  dishes  you 
prefer — 

'  She  robbed  these  dishes  of  flavour,  and  made  a  fool  of 
me  besides.  I  like  to  sleep  well.  In  my  quiet  days,  when 
I  was  my  own  man,  I  never  quarrelled  with  the  night  for 
being  long,  nor  cursed  my  bed  for  its  thorns.  She  changed 
all  this.' 

'  Mr.  Moore ' 

'  And  having  taken  from  me  peace  of  mind,  and  ease  of 
life,  she  took  from  me  herself;  quite  coolly  just  as  if,  when 
she  was  gone,  the  world  would  be  all  the  same  to  me.  I 


PHOEBE  527 

knew  I  should  see  her  again  at  some  time.  At  the  end  of 
two  years,  it  fell  out  that  we  encountered  again  under  her 
own  roof,  where  she  was  mistress.  How  do  you  think  she 
bore  herself  towards  me,  Miss  Keeldar  ?  ' 

'  Like  one  who  had  profited  well  by  lessons  learned  from 
yourself.' 

'  She  received  me  haughtily :  she  meted  out  a  wide 
space  between  us,  and  kept  me  aloof  by  the  reserved 
gesture,  the  rare  and  alienated  glance,  the  word  calmly 
civil.' 

'  She  was  an  excellent  pupil !  Having  seen  you  distant, 
she  at  once  learned  to  withdraw.  Pray,  sir,  admire,  in  her 
hauteur,  a  careful  improvement  on  your  own  coolness.' 

'  Conscience,  and  honour,  and  the  most  despotic  ne- 
cessity, dragged  me  apart  from  her,  and  kept  me  sundered 
with  ponderous  fetters.  She  was  free  :  she  might  have  been 
clement.' 

'  Never  free  to  compromise  her  self-respect :  to  seek 
where  she  had  been  shunned.' 

'  Then  she  was  inconsistent :  she  tantalized  as  before. 
When  I  thought  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  seeing  in  her 
only  a  lofty  stranger,  she  would  suddenly  show  me  such  a 
glimpse  of  loving  simplicity — she  would  warm  me  with  such 
a  beam  of  reviving  sympathy,  she  would  gladden  an  hour 
with  converse  so  gentle,  gay,  and  kindly — that  I  could  no 
more  shut  my  heart  on  her  image,  than  I  could  close  that 
door  against  her  presence.  Explain  why  she  distressed 
me  so.' 

'  She  could  not  bear  to  be  quite  outcast ;  and  then  she 
would  sometimes  get  a  notion  into  her  head,  on  a  cold,  wet 
day,  that  the  school-room  was  no  cheerful  place,  and  feel  it 
incumbent  on  her  to  go  and  see  if  you  and  Henry  kept  up  a 
good  fire  ;  and  once  there  she  liked  to  stay.' 

'  But  she  should  not  be  changeful :  if  she  came  at  all, 
she  should  come  oftener.' 

'  There  is  such  a  thing  as  intrusion.' 

'  To-morrow,  you  will  not  be  as  you  are  to-day.' 


528  SHIRLEY 

1 1  don't  know.     Will  you  ? ' 

'  I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  Berenice !  We  may  give 
one  day  to  dreaming,  but  the  next  we  must  awake ;  and  I 
shall  awake  to  purpose  the  morning  you  are  married  to  Sir 
Philip  Nunnely.  The  fire  shines  on  you  and  me,  and  shows 
us  very  clearly  in  the  glass,  Miss  Keeldar;  and  I  have  been 
gazing  on  the  picture  all  the  time  I  have  been  talking. 
Look  up !  What  a  difference  between  your  head  and  mine  ! 
—I  look  old  for  thirty  !  ' 

'  You  are  so  grave ;  you  have  such  a  square  brow ;  and 
your  face  is  sallow.  I  never  regard  you  as  a  young  man, 
nor  as  Robert's  junior.' 

'  Don't  you  ?  I  thought  not.  Imagine  Robert's  clear- 
cut,  handsome  face  looking  over  my  shoulder.  Does  not 
the  apparition  make  vividly  manifest  the  obtuse  mould  of 
my  heavy  traits  ?  There !  '  (he  started)  '  I  have  been 
expecting  that  wire  to  vibrate  this  last  half-hour.' 

The  dinner-bell  rang,  and  Shirley  rose. 

1  Mr.  Moore,'  she  said,  as  she  gathered  up  her  silks, 
'  have  you  heard  from  your  brother  lately  ?  Do  you  know 
what  he  means  by  staying  in  town  so  long  ?  Does  he  talk 
of  returning  ?  ' 

'  He  talks  of  returning ;  but  what  has  caused  his  long 
absence  I  cannot  tell.  To  speak  the  truth,  I  thought  none 
in  Yorkshire  knew  better  than  yourself  why  he  was  reluctant 
to  come  home.' 

A  crimson  shadow  passed  across  Miss  Keeldar's  cheek. 

'Write  to  him,  and  urge  him  to  come,'  she  said.  'I 
know  there  has  been  no  impolicy  in  protracting  his  absence 
thus  far:  it  is  good  to  let  the  mill  stand,  while  trade  is  so 
bad  ;  but  he  must  not  abandon  the  county.' 

'  I  am  aware,'  said  Louis,  '  that  he  had  an  interview  with 
you  the  evening  before  he  left,  and  I  saw  him  quit  Fieldhead 
afterwards.  I  read  his  countenance,  or  tried  to  read  it.  He 
turned  from  me.  I  divined  that  he  would  be  long  away. 
Some  fine,  slight  fingers  have  a  wondrous  knack  at  pul- 
verizing a  man's  brittle  pride.  I  suppose  Robert  put  too 


PHCEBE  529 

much  trust  in  his  manly  beauty  and  native  gentlemanhood. 
Those  are  better  off  who,  being  destitute  of  advantage, 
cannot  cherish  delusion.  But  I  will  write,  and  say  you 
advise  his  return." 

'  Do  not  say  /  advise  his  1'eturn,  but  that  his  return  is 
advisable.' 

The  second  bell  rang,  and  Miss  Keeldar  obeyed  its  call. 


CHAPTEE   XXIX 

LOUIS   MOORE 

Louis  MOORE  was  used  to  a  quiet  life ;  being  a  quiet  man, 
he  endured  it  better  than  most  men  would  :  having  a 
large  world  of  his  own  in  his  own  head  and  heart,  he  toler- 
ated confinement  to  a  small,  still  corner  of  the  real  world 
very  patiently. 

How  hushed  is  Fieldhead  this  evening  !  All  but  Moore — 
Miss  Keeldar,  the  whole  family  of  the  Sympsons,  even  Henry 
— are  gone  to  Nunnely.  Sir  Philip  would  have  them  come : 
he  wished  to  make  them  acquainted  with  his  mother  and 
sisters,  who  are  now  at  the  Priory.  Kind  gentleman  as  the 
Baronet  is,  he  asked  the  Tutor  too ;  but  the  Tutor  would 
much  sooner  have  made  an  appointment  with  the  ghost  of 
the  Earl  of  Huntingdon  to  meet  him,  and  a  shadowy  ring  of 
his  merry  men,  under  the  canopy  of  the  thickest,  blackest, 
oldest  oak  in  Nunnely  Forest.  Yes,  he  would  leather  have 
appointed  tryst  with  a  phantom  abbess,  or  mist-pale  nun, 
among  the  wet  and  weedy  relics  of  that  ruined  sanctuary  of 
theirs,  mouldering  in  the  core  of  the  wood.  Louis  Moore 
longs  to  have  something  near  him  to-night :  but  not  the 
boy-baronet,  nor  his  benevolent  but  stern  mother,  nor  his 
patrician  sisters,  nor  one  soul  of  the  Sympsons. 

This  night  is  not  calm  :  the  equinox  still  struggles  in  its 
storms.  The  wild  rains  of  the  day  are  abated  :  the  great 
single  cloud  disparts  and  rolls  away  from  heaven,  not  passing 
and  leaving  a  sea  all  sapphire,  but  tossed  buoyant  before  a 
continued  long-sounding,  high-rushing  moonlight  tempest. 
The  Moon  reigns  glorious,  glad  ol  the  gale  ;  as  glad  as  if  she 


LOUIS  MOORE  531 

gave  herself  to  his  fierce  caress  with  love.  No  Endymion 
will  watch  for  his  goddess  to-night :  there  are  no  flocks  out 
on  the  mountains  ;  and  it  is  well,  for  to-night  she  welcomes 
^Eolus. 

Moore — sitting  in  the  school-room — heard  the  storm  roar 
round  the  other  gable,  and  along  the  hall-front :  this  end  was 
sheltered.  He  wanted  no  shelter ;  he  desired  no  subdued 
sounds,  or  screened  position. 

'  All  the  parlours  are  empty,'  said  he :  '  I  am  sick  at  heart 
of  this  cell.' 

He  left  it,  and  went  where  the  casements,  larger  and 
freer  than  the  branch-screened  lattice  of  his  own  apartment, 
admitted  unimpeded  the  dark-blue,  the  silver-fleeced,  the 
stirring  and  sweeping  vision  of  the  autumn  night-sky.  He 
carried  no  candle :  unneeded  was  lamp  or  fire :  the  broad 
and  clear,  though  cloud-crossed  and  fluctuating  beam  of  the 
moon  shone  on  every  floor  and  wall. 

Moore  wanders  through  all  the  rooms  :  he  seems  follow- 
ing a  phantom  from  parlour  to  parlour.  In  the  oak-room  he 
stops :  this  is  not  chill,  and  polished,  and  fireless  like  the 
salon  :  the  hearth  is  hot  and  ruddy  ;  the  cinders  tinkle  in  the 
intense  heat  of  their  clear  glow  ;  near  the  rug  is  a  little  work- 
table,  a  desk  upon  it,  a  chair  near  it. 

Does  the  vision  Moore  has  tracked  occupy  that  chair? 
You  would  think  so,  could  you  see  him  standing  before  it. 
There  is  as  much  interest  now  in  his  eye,  and  as  much  sig- 
nificance in  his  face,  as  if  in  this  household  solitude  he  had 
found  a  living  companion,  and  was  going  to  speak  to  it. 

He  makes  discoveries.  A  bag,  a  small  satin  bag,  hangs 
on  the  chair-back.  The  desk  is  open,  the  keys  are  in  the 
lock  ;  a  pretty  seal,  a  silver  pen,  a  crimson  berry  or  two  of 
ripe  fruit  on  a  green  leaf,  a  small,  clean,  delicate  glove  -these 
trifles  at  once  decorate  and  disarrange  the  stand  they  strew. 
Order  forbids  details  in  a  picture :  she  puts  them  tidily  away ; 
but  details  give  charm. 

Moore  spoke. 

'Her   mark,'   he   said:    'here   she    has   been — careless, 


532  SHIELEY 

attractive  thing ! — called  away  in  haste,  doubtless,  and  for- 
getting to  return  and  put  all  to  rights.  Why  does  she  leave 
fascination  in  her  footprints  ?  Whence  did  she  acquire  the 
gift  to  be  heedless,  and  never  offend  ?  There  is  always  some- 
thing to  chide  in  her,  and  the  reprimand  never  settles  in 
displeasure  on  the  heart ;  but,  for  her  lover  or  her  husband, 
when  it  had  trickled  a  while  in  words,  would  naturally  melt 
from  his  lips  in  a  kiss.  Better  pass  half  an  hour  in  remon- 
strating with  her,  than  a  day  in  admiring  or  praising  any 
other  woman  alive.  Am  I  muttering? — soliloquizing?  Stop 
that.' 

He  did  stop  it.  He  stood  thinking ;  and  then  he  made 
an  arrangement  for  his  evening's  comfort. 

He  dropped  the  curtains  over  the  broad  window  and  regal 
moon  :  he  shut  out  Sovereign  and  Court  and  Starry  Armies ; 
he  added  fuel  to  the  hot  but  fast-wasting  fire ;  he  lit  a  candle, 
of  which  there  were  a  pair  on  the  table ;  he  placed  another 
chair  opposite  that  near  the  work-stand,  and  then  he  sat 
down.  His  next  movement  was  to  take  from  his  pocket  a 
small,  thick  book  of  blank  paper ;  to  produce  a  pencil ;  and 
to  begin  to  write  in  a  cramped,  compact  hand.  Come  near, 
by  all  means,  reader :  do  not  be  shy :  stoop  over  his  shoulder 
fearlessly,  and  read  as  he  scribbles. 

'  It  is  nine  o'clock ;  the  carriage  will  not  return  before 
eleven,  I  am  certain.  Freedom  is  mine  till  then  :  till  then,  I 
may  occupy  her  room  ;  sit  opposite  her  chair  ;  rest  my  elbow 
on  her  table ;  have  her  little  mementoes  about  me. 

'  I  used  rather  to  like  Solitude — to  fancy  her  a  somewhat 
quiet  and  serious,  yet  fair  nymph  ;  an  Oread,  descending  to 
me  from  lone  mountain-passes ;  something  of  the  blue  tnist 
of  hills  in  her  array,  and  of  their  chill  breeze  in  her  breath — 
but  much,  also,  of  their  solemn  beauty  in  her  mien.  I  once 
could  court  her  serenely,  and  imagine  my  heart  easier  when 
I  held  her  to  it— all  mute,  but  majestic. 

'Since  that  day  I  called  S.  to  me  in  the  school-room,  and 
she  came  and  sat  so  near  my  side ;  since  she  opened  the 
trouble  of  her  mind  to  me — asked  my  protection— appealed 


LOUIS  MOOEE  533 

to  my  strength  :  since  that  hour  I  abhor  Solitude.  Cold  ab- 
straction— fleshless  skeleton — daughter — mother — and  mate 
of  Death  ! 

'  It  is  pleasant  to  write  about  what  is  near  and  dear  as 
the  core  of  my  heart :  none  can  deprive  me  of  this  little  book, 
and  through  this  pencil,  I  can  say  to  it  what  I  will — say 
what  I  dare  utter  to  nothing  living — say  what  I  dare  not 
think  aloud. 

'We  have  scarcely  encountered  each  other  since  that 
evening.  Once,  when  I  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
seeking  a  book  of  Henry's,  she  entered,  dressed  for  a  concert 
at  Stilbro'.  Shyness — her  shyness,  not  mine — drew  a  silver 
veil  between  us.  Much  cant  have  I  heard  and  read  about 
"maiden  modesty;"  but,  properly  used,  and  not  hackneyed, 
the  words  are  good  and  appropriate  words :  as  she  passed  to 
the  window,  after  tacitly  but  gracefully  recognising  me,  I 
could  call  her  nothing  in  my  own  mind  save  "  stainless 
virgin :  "  to  my  perception,  a  delicate  splendour  robed  her, 
and  the  modesty  of  girlhood  was  her  halo.  I  may  be  the 
most  fatuitous,  as  I  am  one  of  the  plainest,  of  men ;  but,  in 
truth,  that  shyness  of  hers  touched  me  exquisitely  :  it  nattered 
my  finest  sensations.  I  looked  a  stupid  block,  I  dare  say  :  I 
was  alive  with  a  life  of  Paradise,  as  she  turned  her  glance 
from  my  glance,  and  softly  averted  her  head  to  hide  the 
suffusion  of  her  cheek. 

'  I  know  this  is  the  talk  of  a  dreamer — of  a  rapt,  romantic 
lunatic  :  I  do  dream  :  I  will  dream  now  and  then  ;  and  if 
she  has  inspired  romance  into  my  prosaic  composition,  how 
can  I  help  it  ? 

'  What  a  child  she  is  sometimes  !  What  an  unsophisti- 
cated, untaught  thing  !  I  see  her  now,  looking  up  into  my 
face,  and  entreating  me  to  prevent  them  from  smothering 
her,  and  to  be  sure  and  give  her  a  strong  narcotic  :  I  see 
her  confessing  that  she  was  not  so  self-sufficing,  so  in- 
dependent of  sympathy,  as  people  thought :  I  see  the  secret 
tear  drop  quietly  from  her  eyelash.  She  said  I  thought  her 
childish  —  and  I  did.  She  imagined  I  despised  her.— 


534  SHIKLEY 

Despised  her !  it  was  unutterably  sweet  to  feel  myself  at 
once  near  her  and  above  her :  to  be  conscious  of  a  natural 
right  and  power  to  sustain  her,  as  a  husband  should  sustain 
his  wife. 

'  I  worship  her  perfections  :  but  it  is  her  faults,  or  at  least 
her  foibles,  that  bring  her  near  to  me — that  nestle  her  to  my 
heart — that  fold  her  about  with  my  love — and  that  for  a 
most  selfish,  but  deeply-natural  reason  :  these  faults  are  the 
steps  by  which  I  mount  to  ascendency  over  her.  If  she 
rose  a  trimmed,  artificial  mound,  without  inequality,  what 
vantage  would  she  offer  the  foot  ?  It  is  the  natural  hill, 
with  its  mossy  breaks  and  hollows,  whose  slope  invites 
ascent — whose  summit  it  is  pleasure  to  gain. 

'  To  leave  metaphor.  It  delights  my  eye  to  look  on  her  : 
she  suits  me  :  if  I  were  a  king,  and  she  the  housemaid  that 
swept  my  palace-stairs — across  all  that  space  between  us — 
my  eye  would  recognise  her  qualities  ;  a  true  pulse  would 
beat  for  her  in  my  heart,  though  an  unspanned  gulf  made 
acquaintance  impossible.  If  I  were  a  gentleman,  and  she 
waited  on  me  as  a  servant,  I  could  not  help  liking  that 
Shirley.  Take  from  her  her  education — take  her  ornaments, 
her  sumptuous  dress— all  extrinsic  advantages — take  all 
grace,  but  such  as  the  symmetry  of  her  form  renders 
inevitable  ;  present  her  to  me  at  a  cottage-door,  in  a  stuff 
gown  ;  let  her  offer  me  there  a  draught  of  water,  with  that 
smile — with  that  warm  good-will  with  which  she  now 
dispenses  manorial  hospitality — I  should  like  her.  I  should 
wish  to  stay  an  hour  :  I  should  linger  to  talk  with  that 
rustic.  I  should  not  feel  as  I  now  do  :  I  should  find  in  her 
nothing  divine ;  but  whenever  I  met  the  young  peasant,  it 
would  be  with  pleasure — whenever  I  left  her,  it  would  be 
with  regret. 

'  How  culpably  careless  in  her  to  leave  her  desk  open, 
where  I  know  she  has  money !  In  the  lock  hang  the  keys 
of  all  her  repositories,  of  her  very  jewel-casket.  There  is  a 
purse  in  that  little  satin  bag :  I  see  the  tassel  of  silver 


LOUIS  MOOEE  535 

beads  hanging  out.  That  spectacle  would  provoke  my 
brother  Eobert :  all  her  little  failings  would,  I  know,  be  a 
source  of  irritation  to  him ;  if  they  vex  me  it  is  a  most 
pleasurable  vexation  :  I  delight  to  find  her  at  fault,  and 
were  I  always  resident  with  her,  I  am  aware  she  would  be 
no  niggard  in  thus  ministering  to  my  enjoyment.  She 
would  just  give  me  something  to  do ;  to  rectify  :  a  theme 
for  my  tutor-lectures.  I  never  lecture  Henry  :  never  feel 
disposed  to  do  so  :  if  he  does  wrong,— and  that  is  very 
seldom,  dear  excellent  lad  !— a  word  suffices  :  often  I  do  no 
more  than  shake  my  head ;  but  the  moment  her  '  minois 
mutin '  meets  my  eye,  expostulatory  words  crowd  to  my 
lips  :  from  a  taciturn  man,  I  believe  she  would  transform  me 
into  a  talker.  Whence  comes  the  delight  I  take  in  that 
talk  ?  It  puzzles  myself  sometimes  ;  the  more  crane,  rnalin, 
taquin  is  her  mood,  consequently  the  clearer  occasion  she 
gives  me  for  disapprobation,  the  more  I  seek  her,  the  better 
I  like  her.  She  is  never  wilder  than  when  equipped  in  her 
habit  and  hat :  never  less  manageable  than  when  she  and 
Zoe  come  in  fiery  from  a  race  with  the  wind  on  the  hills : 
and  I  confess  it — to  this  mute  page  I  may  confess  it — I 
have  waited  an  hour  in  the  court,  for  the  chance  of  witness- 
ing her  return,  and  for  the  dearer  chance  of  receiving  her  in 
my  arms  from  the  saddle.  I  have  noticed  (again,  it  is  to 
this  page  only  I  would  make  the  remark)  that  she  will  never 
permit  any  man  but  myself  to  render  her  that  assistance.  I 
have  seen  her  politely  decline  Sir  Philip  Nunnely's  aid  :  she 
is  always  mighty  gentle  with  her  young  baronet ;  mighty 
tender  of  his  feelings,  forsooth,  and  of  his  very  thin-skinned 
amour-propre :  I  have  marked  her  haughtily  reject  Sam 
Wynne's.  Now  I  know — my  heart  knows  it,  for  it  has  felt 
it — that  she  resigns  herself  to  me  unreluctantly :  is  she 
conscious  how  my  strength  rejoices  to  serve  her  ?  I  myself 
am  not  her  slave — I  declare  it, — but  my  faculties  gather  to 
her  beauty,  like  the  genii  to  the  glisten  of  the  Lamp.  All 
my  knowledge,  all  my  prudence,  all  my  calm,  and  all  my 


536  SHIRLEY 

power,  stand  in  her  presence  humbly  waiting  a  task.  How 
glad  they  are  when  a  mandate  comes !  What  joy  they  take 
in  the  toil  she  assigns !  Does  she  know  it  ? 

'  I  have  called  her  careless :  it  is  remarkable  that  her 
carelessness  never  compromises  her  refinement ;  indeed, 
through  this  very  loophole  of  character,  the  reality,  depth, 
genuineness  of  that  refinement  may  be  ascertained  :  a  whole 
garment  sometimes  covers  meagreness  and  malformation  ; 
through  a  rent  sleeve,  a  fair  round  arm  may  be  revealed.  I 
have  seen  and  handled  many  of  her  possessions,  because  they 
are  frequently  astray.  I  never  saw  anything  that  did  not 
proclaim  the  lady  :  nothing  sordid,  nothing  soiled ;  in  one 
sense  she  is  as  scrupulous  as,  in  another,  she  is  unthinking  : 
as  a  peasant  girl,  she  would  go  ever  trim  and  cleanly.  Look 
at  the  pure  kid  of  this  little  glove,— at  the  fresh,  unsullied 
satin  of  the  bag. 

'  What  a  difference  there  is  between  S.  and  that  pearl 
C.  H. !  Caroline,  I  fancy,  is  the  soul  of  conscientious 
punctuality  and  nice  exactitude ;  she  would  precisely  suit 
the  domestic  habits  of  a  certain  fastidious  kinsman  of  mine  ; 
so  delicate,  dexterous,  quaint,  quick,  quiet ;  all  done  to  a 
minute,  all  arranged  to  a  strawbreadth  :  she  would  suit 
Robert ;  but  what  could  J  do  with  anything  so  nearly  fault- 
less ?  SJie  is  my  equal ;  poor  as  myself ;  she  is  certainly 
preity :  a  little  Raffaelle  head  hers ;  Raffaelle  in  feature, 
quite  English  in  expression :  all  insular  grace  and  purity ; 
but  where  is  there  anything  to  alter,  anything  to  endure, 
anything  to  reprimand,  to  be  anxious  about?  There  she  is, 
a  lily  of  the  valley,  untiuted,  needing  no  tint.  What  change 
could  improve  her  ?  What  pencil  dare  to  paint  ?  My  sweet- 
heart, if  I  ever  have  one,  must  bear  nearer  affinity  to  the 
rose  :  a  sweet,  lively  delight  guarded  with  prickly  peril. 
My  wife,  if  I  ever  marry,  must  stir  my  great  frame  with 
a  sting  now  and  then  :  she  must  furnish  use  to  her  husband's 
vast  mass  of  patience.  I  was  not  made  so  enduring  to  be 
mated  with  a  lamb  :  I  should  find  more  congenial  respon- 
sibility in  the  charge  of  a,  young  lioness  or  leopardess.  I 


LOUIS  MOORE  637 

like  few  things  sweet,  but  what  are  likewise  pungent ;  few 
things  bright,  but  what  are  likewise  hot.  I  like  the  summer- 
day,  whose  sun  makes  fruit  blush  and  corn  blanch.  Beauty 
is  never  so  beautiful  as  when,  if  I  tease  it,  it  wreathes  back 
on  me  with  spirit.  Fascination  is  never  so  imperial  as 
when,  roused  and  half  ireful,  she  threatens  transformation 
to  fierceness.  I  fear  I  should  tire  of  the  mute,  monotonous 
innocence  of  the  lamb  ;  I  should  erelong  feel  as  burdensome 
the  nestling  dove  which  never  stirred  in  my  bosom  :  but  my 
patience  would  exult  in  stilling  the  flutterings  and  training 
the  energies  of  the  restless  merlin.  In  managing  the  wild 
instincts  of  the  scarce  manageable  "  bete  fauve,"  my  powers 
would  revel. 

'  Oh,  my  pupil !  Oh,  Peri !  too  mutinous  for  heaven — 
too  innocent  for  hell !  never  shall  I  do  more  than  see,  and 
worship,  and  wish  for  thee.  Alas !  knowing  I  could  make 
thee  happy,  will  it  be  my  doom  to  see  thee  possessed  by 
those  who  have  not  that  power  ? 

'  However  kindly  the  hand — if  it  is  feeble,  it  cannot  bend 
Shirley ;  and  she  must  be  bent  :  it  cannot  curb  her ;  and 
she  must  be  curbed. 

'  Beware  !  Sir  Philip  Nunnely  !  I  never  see  you  walking 
'or  sitting  at  her  side,  and  observe  her  lips  compressed,  or 
her  brow  knit,  in  resolute  endurance  of  some  trait  of  your 
character  which  she  neither  admires  nor  likes  ;  in  deter- 
mined toleration  of  some  weakness  she  believes  atoned  for 
by  a  virtue,  but  which  annoys  her,  despite  that  belief : 
I  never  mark  the  grave  glow  of  her  face,  the  unsmiling 
sparkle  of  her  eye,  the  slight  recoil  of  her  whole  frame  when 
you  draw  a  little  too  near,  and  gaze  a  little  too  expressively, 
and  whisper  a  little  too  warmly  :  I  never  witness  these  things, 
but  1  think  of  the  fable  of  Semele  reversed. 

'  It  is  not  the  daughter  of  Cadmus  I  see  :  nor  do  I  realize 
her  fatal  longing  to  look  on  Jove  in  the  majesty  of  his  god- 
head. It  is  a  priest  of  Juno  that  stands  before  me,  watching 
late  and  lone  at  a  shrine  in  an  Argive  temple.  For  years  of 
solitary  ministry,  he  has  lived  on  dreams :  there  is  divine 


538  SHIELEY 

madness  upon  him  :  he  loves  the  idol  he  serves,  and  prays 
day  and  night  that  his  frenzy  may  be  fed,  and  that  the 
Ox-eyed  may  smile  on  her  votary.  She  has  heard ;  she  will 
be  propitious.  All  Argos  slumbers.  The  doors  of  the  temple 
are  shut :  the  priest  waits  at  the  altar. 

'  A  shock  of  heaven  and  earth  is  felt — not  by  the  slum- 
bering city  ;  only  by  that  lonely  watcher,  brave  and  unshaken 
in  his  fanaticism.  In  the  midst  of  silence,  with  no  preluding 
sound,  he  is  wrapt  in  sudden  light.  Through  the  roof — 
through  the  rent,  wide-yawning,  vast,  white-blazing  blue 
of  heaven  above,  pours  a  wondrous  descent — dread  as  the 
down-rushing  of  stars.  He  has  what  he  asked  :  withdraw— 
forbear  to  look — I  am  blinded.  I  hear  in  that  fane  an 
unspeakable  sound — would  that  I  could  not  hear  it !  I  see 
an  insufferable  glory  burning  terribly  between  the  pillars. 
Gods  be  merciful  and  quench  it ! 

'  A  pious  Argive  enters  to  make  an  early  offering  in  the 
cool  dawn  of  morning.  There  was  thunder  in  the  night :  the 
bolt  fell  here.  The  shrine  is  shivered  :  the  marble  pavement 
round,  split  and  blackened.  Saturnia's  statue  rises  chaste, 
grand,  untouched  :  at  her  feet,  piled  ashes  lie  pale.  No 

priest  remains  :  he  who  watched  will  be  seen  no  more. 

****** 

'  There  is  the  carriage  !  Let  me  lock  up  the  desk  and 
pocket  the  keys :  she  will  be  seeking  them  to-morrow :  she 
will  have  to  come  to  me.  I  hear  her — "  Mr.  Moore,  have 
you  seen  my  keys  ?  " 

'  So  she  will  say,  in  her  clear  voice,  speaking  with 
reluctance,  looking  ashamed,  conscious  that  this  is  the 
twentieth  time  of  asking.  I  will  tantalize  her :  keep  her 
with  me,  expecting,  doubting  ;  and  when  I  do  restore  them, 
it  shall  not  be  without  a  lecture.  Here  is  the  bag,  too,  and 
the  purse  ;  the  glove— pen — seal.  She  shall  wring  them  all 
out  of  me  slowly  and  separately :  only  by  confession, 
penitence,  entreaty.  I  never  can  touch  her  hand,  or  a 
ringlet  of  her  head,  or  a  ribbon  of  her  dress,  but  I  will  make 
privik-ges  for  myself :  every  feature  of  her  face,  her  bright 


LOUIS  MOORE  539 

eyes,  her  lips,  shall  go  through  each  change  they  know,  for 
my  pleasure  :  display  each  exquisite  variety  of  glance  and 
curve,  to  delight — thrill — perhaps,  more  hopelessly  to 
enchain  me.  If  I  must  be  her  slave,  I  will  not  lose  my 
freedom  for  nothing.' 

He  locked  the  desk,  pocketed  all  the  property,  and  went. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

RUSHEDGE,   A   CONFESSIONAL 

EVERYBODY  said  it  was  high  time  for  Mr.  Moore  to  return 
home  :  all  Briarfield  wondered  at  his  strange  absence,  and 
Whinbury  and  Nunnely  brought  each  its  separate  contribu- 
tion of  amazement. 

Was  it  known  why  he  stayed  away  ?  Yes  :  it  was  known 
twenty — forty  times  over;  there  being,  at  least,  forty 
plausible  reasons  adduced  to  account  for  the  unaccount- 
able circumstance.  Business  it  was  not — iliat  the  gossips 
agreed :  he  had  achieved  the  business  on  which  he  departed 
long  ago :  his  four  ringleaders  he  had  soon  scented  out  and 
run  down  :  he  had  attended  their  trial,  heard  their  convic- 
tion and  sentence,  and  seen  them  safely  shipped  prior  to 
transportation. 

This  was  known  at  Briarfield :  the  newspapers  had 
reported  it :  the  Stilbro'  Courier  had  given  every  particular, 
with  amplifications.  None  applauded  his  perseverance  or 
nailed  his  success ;  though  the  mill-owners  were  glad  of  it, 
trusting  that  the  terrors  of  Law  vindicated  would  hence- 
forward paralyze  the  sinister  valour  of  disaffection.  Dis- 
affection, however,  was  still  heard  muttering  to  himself.  He 
swore  ominous  oaths  over  the  drugged  beer  of  alehouses, 
and  drank  strange  toasts  in  fiery  British  gin. 

One  report  affirmed  that  Moore  dared  not  come  to 
Yorkshire  ;  he  knew  his  life  was  not  worth  an  hour's  pur- 
chase, if  he  did. 

'I'll   toll  him  that,'  said  Mr.  Yorke,  when  his  foreman 


RUSHEDGE,  A  CONFESSIONAL  541 

mentioned  the  rumour ;  '  and  if  tliat  does  not  bring  him 
home  full-gallop — nothing  will.' 

Either  that  or  some  other  motive  prevailed,  at  last,  to 
recall  him.  He  announced  to  Joe  Scott  the  day  he  should 
arrive  at  Stilbro',  desiring  his  hackney  to  be  sent  to  the 
1  George '  for  his  accommodation ;  and  Joe  Scott  having 
informed  Mr.  Yorke,  that  gentleman  made  it  in  his  way  to 
meet  him. 

It  was  market-day :  Moore  arrived  in  time  to  take 
his  usual  place  at  the  market-dinner.  As  something  of  a 
stranger—  and  as  a  man  of  note  and  action — the  assembled 
manufacturers  received  him  with  a  certain  distinction. 
Some — who  in  public  would  scarcely  have  dared  to  acknow- 
ledge his  acquaintance,  lest  a  little  of  the  hate  and  vengeance 
laid  up  in  store  for  him  should  perchance  have  fallen  on 
them — in  private  hailed  him  as  in  some  sort  their  champion. 
When  the  wine  had  circulated,  their  respect  would  have 
kindled  to  enthusiasm,  had  not  Moore's  unshaken  non- 
chalance held  it  in  a  damp,  low,  smouldering  state. 

Mr.  Yorke — the  permanent  president  of  these  dinners — 
witnessed  his  young  friend's  bearing  with  exceeding  com- 
placency. If  one  thing  could  stir  his  temper  or  excite  his 
contempt  more  than  another,  it  was  to  see  a  man  befooled 
by  flattery,  or  elate  with  popularity.  If  one  thing  smoothed, 
soothed,  and  charmed  him  especially,  it  was  the  spectacle 
of  a  public  character  incapable  of  relishing  his  publicity : 
incapable,  I  say  ;  disdain  would  but  have  incensed — it  was 
indifference  that  appeased  his  rough  spirit. 

Robert,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  quiet  and  almost 
surly,  while  the  clothiers  and  blanket-makers  vaunted  his 
prowess  and  rehearsed  his  deeds-— many  of  them  interspers- 
ing their  flatteries  with  coarse  invectives  against  the 
operative  class— was  a  delectable  sight  for  Mr.  Yorke.  His 
heart  tingled  with  the  pleasing  conviction  that  these  gross 
eulogiums  shamed  Moore  deeply,  and  made  him  half  scorn 
himself  and  his  work.  On  abuse,  on  reproach,  on  calumny, 
it  is  easy  to  smile  ;  but  painful  indeed  is  the  panegyric  of 


542 

those  we  contemn.  Often  had  Moore  ga;^ed  with  a  brilliant, 
countenance  over  howling  crowds  from  a  hostile  hustings : 
he  had  breasted  the  storm  of  unpopularity  with  gallant 
bearing  and  soul  elate  ;  but  he  drooped  his  head  under  the 
half-bred  tradesmen's  praise,  and  shrank  chagrined  before 
their  congratulations. 

Yorke  could  not  help  asking  him  how  he  liked  his 
supporters,  and  whether  ho  did  not  think  they  did  honour 
to  his  cause.  'But  it  is  a  pity,  lad,'  he  added,  '  that  you  did 
not  hang  these  four  samples  of  the  Unwashed.  If  you  had 
managed  that  feat,  the  gentry  here  would  have  riven  the 
horses  out  of  the  coach,  yoked-toa  score  of  asses,  and  drawn 
you  into  Stilbro'  like  a  conquering  general.' 

Moore  soon  forsook  the  wine,  broke  from  the  party,  and 
took  the  road.  In  less  than  five  minutes  Mr.  Yorke  followed 
him  :  they  rode  out  of  Stilbro'  together. 

It  was  early  to  go  home,  but  yet  it  was  late  in  the  day  : 
the  last  ray  of  the  sun  had  already  faded  from  the  cloud- 
edges,  and  the  October  night  was  casting  over  the  moorlands 
the  shadow  of  her  approach. 

Mr.  Yorke — moderately  exhilarated  with  his  moderate 
libations,  and  not  displeased  to  see.  young  Moore  again  in 
Yorkshire,  and  to  have  him  for  his  comrade  during  the  long 
ride  homo — took  the  discourse  much  to  himself.  He 
touched  briefly,  but  scoffmgly,  on  the  trials  and  the  convic- 
tion ;  he  passed  thence  to  the  gossip  of  the  neighbourhood, 
and,  erelong,  he  attacked  Moore  on  his  own  personal 
concerns. 

'  Bob,  I  believe  you  are  worsted  ;  and  you  deserve  it.  All 
was  smooth.  Fortune  had  fallen  in  love  with  you:  she  had 
decreed  you  the  first  prize  in  her  wheel — twenty  thousand 
pounds  :  she  only  required  that  you  should  hold  your  hand 
out  and  take  it.  And  what  did  you  do  ?  You  called  for  a 
horse  and  rode  a-hunting  to  Warwickshire.  Your  sweetheart 
—Fortune,  I  mean — was  perfectly  indulgent.  Rhe  said,  "  I'll 
excuse  him  :  he's  young."  She  waited  like  "  Patience  on  a 
monument,"  till  the  chase  was  over,  and  the  vermin-prey 


BUSHEDGE,  A  CONFESSIONAL  543 

run  down.     She  expected  you  would  come  back  then,  and 
be  a  good  lad  :  you  might  still  have  had  her  first  prize. 

'  It  capped  her  beyond  expression,  and  me  too,  to  find 
that,  instead  of  thundering  home  in  a  breakneck  gallop,  and 
laying  your  assize-laurels  at  her  feet,  you  coolly  took  coach 
up  to  London.  What  you  have  done  there,  Satan  knows  : 
nothing  in  this  world,  I  believe,  but  sat  and  sulked :  your 
face  was  never  lily-fair,  but  it  is  olive-green  now.  You're 
not  as  bonnie  as  you  were,  man.' 

'  And  who  is  to  have  this  prize  you  talk  so  much 
about  ? ' 

1  Only  a  baronet :  that  is  all.  I  have  not  a  doubt  in  my 
own  mind  you've  lost  her  :  she  will  be  Lady  Nunnely  before 
Christmas.' 

'  Hem  !     Quite  probable.' 

'  But  she  need  not  to  have  been.     Fool  of  a  lad !     I 
swear  you  might  have  had  her ! ' 
'  By  what  token,  Mr.  Yorke  ?  ' 

'  By  every  token.  By  the  light  of  her  eyes,  the  red  of 
her  cheeks :  red  they  grew  when  your  name  was  mentioned, 
though  of  custom  they  are  pale.' 

'  My  chance  is  quite  over,  I  suppose  ?  ' 
1  It  ought  to  be ;  but  try  :  it  is  worth  trying.     I  call  this 
Sir  Philip  milk-and-water.     And  then  he  writes  verses,  they 
say — tags  rhymes.     You  are  above  that,  Bob,  at  all  events.' 
'  Would   you  advise  me  to  propose,  late  as  it   is,   Mr. 
Yorke  ?  at  the  eleventh  hour  ?  ' 

'  You  can  but  make  the  experiment,  Robert.  If  she  has 
a  fancy  for  you — and,  on  my  conscience,  I  believe  she  has, 
or  had — she  will  forgive  much.  But,  my  lad,  you  are 
laughing :  is  it  at  me  ?  You  had  better  girn  at  your  own 
perverseness.  I  see,  however,  you  laugh  at  the  wrong  side 
of  your  mouth  :  you  have  as  sour  a  look  at  this  moment  as 
one  need  wish  to  see.' 

'  I  have  so  quarrelled  with  myself,  Yorke.  I  have  so 
kicked  against  the  pricks,  and  struggled  in  a  strait-waistcoat, 
and  dislocated  my  wrists  with  wrenching  them  in  handcuffs. 


544  SHIRLEY 

and  battered  my  hard  head,  by  driving  it  against  a  harder 
wall.' 

'Ha!  I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  Sharp  exercise  yon'!  I 
hope  it  has  done  you  good ;  ta'en  some  of  the  self-conceit 
out  of  you  ?  ' 

'  Self-conceit !  What  is  it  ?  Self-respect,  self-tolerance, 
even,  what  are  they?  Do  you  sell  the  articles?  Do  you 
know  anybody  who  does  ?  Give  an  indication  :  they  would 
find  in  me  a  liberal  chapman.  I  would  part  with  my  last 
guinea  this  minute  to  buy.' 

'  Is  it  so  with  you,  Eobert  ?  I  find  that  spicy.  I  like  a 
man  to  speak  his  mind.  What  has  gone  wrong? ' 

'  The  machinery  of  all  my  nature ;  the  whole  enginery  of 
this  human  mill :  the  boiler,  which  I  take  to  be  the  heart,  is 
fit  to  burst.' 

'  That  suld  be  putten  i*  print :  it's  striking.  It's  almost 
blank  verse.  Ye'll  be  jingling  into  poetry  just  e'  now.  If 
the  afflatus  comes,  give  way,  Robert ;  never  heed  me  :  I'll 
bear  it  this  whet  (time).' 

'  Hideous,  abhorrent,  base  blunder !  You  may  commit  in 
a  moment  what  you  may  rue  for  years — what  life  cannot 
cancel.' 

1  Lad,  go  on.  I  call  it  pie,  nuts,  sugar-candy.  I  like  the 
taste  uncommonly.  Go  on :  it  will  do  you  good  to  talk : 
the  moor  is  before  us  now,  and  there  is  no  life  for  many  a 
mile  round.' 

'  I  will  talk.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell.  There  is  a  sort 
of  wild  cat  in  my  breast,  and  I  choose  that  you  shall  hear 
how  it  can  yell.' 

'  To  me  it  is  music.  What  grand  voices  you  and  Louis 
have !  When  Louis  sings — tones  off  like  a  soft,  deep  bell, 
I've  felt  myself  tremble  again.  The  night  is  still :  it  listens  : 
it  is  just  leaning  down  to  you,  like  a  black  priest  to  a 
blacker  penitent.  Confess,  lad  :  smooth  naught  down :  be 
candid  as  a  convicted,  justified,  sanctified  methody  at  an 
experience-meeting.  Make  yourself  as  wicked  as  Beelze- 
bub :  it  will  ease  your  mind.' 


EUSHEDGE,  A  CONFESSIONAL  545 

1  As  mean  as  Mammon,  you  would  say.  Yorke,  if  I  got 
off  horseback  and  laid  myself  down  across  the  road,  would 
you  have  the  goodness  to  gallop  over  me — backwards  and 
forwards — about  twenty  times  ?  ' 

'  Wi'  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  if  there  were  no  such  tiling 
as  a  coroner's  inquest.' 

'  Hiram  Yorke,  I  certainly  believed  she  loved  me.  I 
have  seen  her  eyes  sparkle  radiantly  when  she  has  found 
me  out  in  a  crowd  :  she  has  flushed  up  crimson  when  she 
has  offered  me  her  hand,  and  said,  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Moore  ?  " 

'  My  name  had  a  magical  influence  over  her :  when 
others  uttered  it,  she  changed  countenance, — I  know  she 
did.  She  pronounced  it  herself  in  the  most  musical  of  her 
many  musical  tones.  She  was  cordial  to  me  ;  she  took  an 
interest  in  me  ;  she  was  anxious  about  me  ;  she  wished  me 
well ;  she  sought,  she  seized  every  opportunity  to  benefit 
me.  I  considered,  paused,  watched,  weighed,  wondered :  I 
could  come  to  but  one  conclusion — this  is  love. 

'  I  looked  at  her,  Yorke :  I  saw,  in  her,  youth  and  a 
species  of  beauty.  I  saw  power  in  her.  Her  wealth  offered 
me  the  redemption  of  my  honour  and  my  standing.  I  owed 
her  gratitude.  She  had  aided  me  substantially  and  effec- 
tually by  a  loan  of  five  thousand  pounds.  Could  I  remember 
these  things  ?  Could  I  believe  she  loved  me  ?  Could  I  hear 
wisdom  urge  me  to  marry  her,  and  disregard  every  dear 
advantage,  disbelieve  every  flattering  suggestion,  disdain 
every  well-weighed  counsel,  turn  and  leave  her?  Young, 
graceful,  gracious, — my  benefactress,  attached  to  me, 
enamoured  of  me, — I  used  to  say  so  to  myself ;  dwell  on 
the  word  ;  mouth  it  over  and  over  again ;  swell  over  it 
with  a  pleasant,  pompous  complacency, — with  an  admiration 
dedicated  entirely  to  myself,  and  unimpaired  even  by  esteem 
for  her ;  indeed,  I  smiled  in  deep  secrecy  at  her  na'iveU  and 
simplicity,  in  being  the  first  to  love,  and  to  show  it.  That 
whip  of  yours  seems  to  have  a  good  heavy  handle,  Yorke : 
you  can  swing  it  about  your  head  and  knock  me  out  of  the 


546  SHIELEY 

saddle,  if  you  choose.  I  should  rather  relish  a  loundering 
whack.' 

'  Tak'  patience,  Robert,  till  the  moon  rises,  and  I  can  see 
you.  Speak  plain  out, — did  you  love  her  or  not  ?  I  could 
like  to  know :  I  feel  curious.' 

'  Sir  .  .  .  Sir — I  say — she  is  very  pretty,  in  her  own 
style,  and  very  attractive.  She  has  a  look,  at  times,  of  a 
thing  made  out  of  fire  and  air,  at  which  I  stand  and  marvel, 
without  a  thought  of  clasping  and  kissing  it.  I  felt  in  her  a 
powerful  magnet  to  my  interest  and  vanity  :  I  never  felt  as 
if  nature  meant  her  to  be  my  other  and  better  self.  When  a 
question  on  that  head  rushed  upon  me,  I  flung  it  off,  saying 
brutally,  I  should  be  rich  with  her,  and  ruined  without  her : 
vowing  I  would  be  practical,  and  not  romantic.' 

'  A  very  sensible  resolve.    What  mischief  came  of  it,  Bob  ? ' 

'  With  this  sensible  resolve,  I  walked  up  to  Fieldhead  one 
night  last  August :  it  was  the  very  eve  of  my  departure  for 
Birmingham — for — you  see — I  wanted  to  secure  fortune's 
splendid  prize :  I  had  previously  despatched  a  note,  re- 
questing a  private  interview.  I  found  her  at  home,  and 
alone. 

'  She  received  me  without  embarrassment,  for  she  thought 
I  came  on  business :  I  was  embarrassed  enough,  but  deter- 
mined. I  hardly  know  how  I  got  the  operation  over ;  but  I 
went  to  work  in  a  hard,  firm  fashion, — frightful  enough,  I 
dare  say.  I  sternly  offered  myself — my  fine  person — with  my 
debts,  of  course,  as  a  settlement. 

'  It  vexed  me  ;  it  kindled  my  ire,  to  find  that  she  neither 
blushed,  trembled,  nor  looked  down.  She  responded  : — "  I 
doubb  whether  I  have  understood  you,  Mr.  Moore." 

'  And  I  had  to  go  over  the  whole  proposal  twice,  and  word 
it  as  plainly  as  A  B  C,  before  she  would  fully  take  it  in.  And 
then,  what  did  she  do?  Instead  of  faltering  a  sweet  Yes,  or 
maintaining  a  soft,  confused  silence  (which  would  have  been 
as  good)  she  started  up,  walked  twice  fast  through  the  room, 
in  the  way  that  she  only  does,  and  no  other  woman,  and 
ejaculated — "  God  bless  me  !  " 


EUSHEDGE,  A  CONFESSIONAL  547 

'  Yorke,  I  stood  on  the  hearth,  backed  by  the  mantel- 
piece ;  against  it  I  leaned,  and  prepared  for  anything — 
everything.  I  knew  my  doom,  and  I  knew  myself.  There 
was  no  misunderstanding  her  aspect  and  voice.  She  stopped 
and  looked  at  me. 

' "  God  bless  me  ! "  she  piteously  repeated,  in  that  shocked, 
indignant,  yet  saddened  accent.  "  You  have  made  a  strange 
proposal — strange  from  you :  and  if  you  knew  how  strangely 
you  worded  it,  and  looked  it,  you  would  be  startled  at  your- 
self. You  spoke  like  a  brigand  who  demanded  my  purse, 
rather  than  like  a  lover  who  asked  my  heart." 

'  A  queer  sentence,  was  it  not,  Yorke  ?  and  I  knew,  as 
she  uttered  it,  it  was  true  as  queer.  Her  words  were  a 
mirror  in  which  I  saw  myself. 

'  I  looked  at  her,  dumb  and  wolfish  :  she  at  once  enraged 
and  shamed  me. 

'  "  Gerard  Moore,  you  know  you  don't  love  Shirley  Keel- 
dar."  I  might  have  broken  out  into  false  swearing :  vowed 
that  I  did  love  her ;  but  I  could  not  lie  in  her  pure  face  :  I 
could  not  perjure  myself  in  her  truthful  presence.  Besides, 
such  hollow  oaths  would  have  been  vain  as  void :  she  would 
no  more  have  believed  me  than  she  would  have  believed  the 
ghost  of  Judas,  had  he  broken  from  the  night  and  stood 
before  her.  Her  female  heart  had  finer  perceptions  than  to 
be  cheated  into  mistaking  my  half-coarse,  half-cold  admira- 
tion, for  true-throbbing,  manly  love. 

'  What  next  happened  ?  you  will  say,  Mr.  Yorke. 

'  Why,  she  sat  down  in  the  window-seat  and  cried.  She 
cried  passionately :  her  eyes  not  only  rained,  but  lightened. 
They  flashed,  open,  large,  dark,  haughty,  upon  me :  they 
said — "  You  have  pained  me :  you  have  outraged  me  :  you 
have  deceived  me." 

'  She  added  words  soon  to  looks. 

1 "  I  did  respect — I  did  admire — I  did  like  you,"  she  said  : 
"  yes — as  much  as  if  you  were  my  brother :  and  you — you 
want  to  make  a  speculation  of  me.  You  would  immolate  me 
to  that  mill — your  Moloch  !  " 


548  SHIRLEY 

1 1  had  the  common  sense  to  abstain  from  any  word  of 
excuse — any  attempt  at  palliation :  I  stood  to  be  scorned. 

'Sold  to  the  devil  for  the  time  being,  I  was  certainly 
infatuated  :  when  I  did  speak,  what  do  you  think  I  said  ? 

'  "  Whatever  my  own  feelings  were,  I  was  persuaded  you 
loved  me,  Miss  Keeldar." 

'  Beautiful ! — was  it  not  ?  She  sat  quite  confounded. 
"  Is  it  Robert  Moore  that  speaks  ?  "  I  heard  her  mutter.  "  Is 
it  a  man — or  something  lower  ?  " 

'  "  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked  aloud--"  do  you  mean  you 
thought  I  loved  you  as  we  love  those  we  wish  to  marry  ?  " 

'  It  was  my  meaning ;  and  I  said  so. 

' "  You  conceived  an  idea  obnoxious  to  a  woman's 
feelings,"  was  her  answer  :  "  you  have  announced  it  in  a 
fashion  revolting  to  a  woman's  soul.  You  insinuate  that  all 
the  frank  kindness  I  have  shown  you  has  been  a  complicated, 
a  bold,  and  an  immodest  manoeuvre  to  ensnare  a  husband : 
you  imply  that  at  last  you  come  here  out  of  pity  to  offer  me 
your  hand,  because  I  have  courted  you.  Let  me  say  this  : 
-Your  sight  is  jaundiced:  you  have  seen  wrong.  Your 
mind  is  warped :  you  have  judged  wrong.  Your  tongue 
betrays  you :  you  now  speak  wrong.  I  never  loved  you. 
Be  at  rest  there.  My  heart  is  as  pure  of  passion  for  you  as 
yours  is  barren  of  affection  for  me." 

'  I  hope  I  was  answered,  Yorke  ? 

' "  I  seem  to  be  a  blind,  besotted  sort  of  person,"  was  my 
remark. 

'  "  Loved  you  !  "  she  cried.  "  Why,  I  have  been  as  frank 
with  you  as  a  sister — never  shunned  you — never  feared  you. 
You  cannot,"  she  affirmed  triumphantly — "  you  cannot 
make  me  tremble  with  your  coming,  nor  accelerate  my  pulse 
by  your  influence." 

'  I  alleged  that  often,  when  she  spoke  to  me,  she  blushed, 
and  that  the  sound  of  my  name  moved  her. 

' "  Not  for  your  sake  !  "  she  declared  briefly  :  I  urged 
explanation,  but  could  get  none. 

'  "  When  I  sat  beside  you  at  the  school-feast,  did  you 


BUSHEDGE,  A.  CONFESSIONAL  549 

think  I  loved  you  then  ?     When  I  stopped  you  in  May  thorn- 
lane  did  you  think  I  loved  you  then  ?     When  I  called  on 
you  in  the  counting-house — when  I  walked  with  you  on  the 
pavement — did  you  think  I  loved  you  then  ?  " 
'  So  she  questioned  me ;  and  I  said  I  did. 
'By  the   Lord!   Yorke — she  rose— she  grew  tall — she 
expanded    and    refined    almost    to    flame :     there    was    a 
trembling  all  through  her,  as  in  live  coal,  when  its  vivid 
vermilion  is  hottest. 

'  "  That  is  to  say,  that  you  have  the  worst  opinion  of  me  : 
that  you  deny  me  the  possession  of  all  I  value  most.  That 
is  to  say,  that  I  am  a  traitor  to  all  my  sisters  :  that  I  have 
acted  as  no  woman  can  act,  without  degrading  herself  and 
her  sex  :  that  I  have  sought  where  the  incorrupt  of  my  kind 
naturally  scorn  and  abhor  to  seek."  She  and  I  were  silent, 
for  many  a  minute.  "Lucifer — Star  of  the  Morning  !  "  she 
went  on,  "  thou  art  fallen.  You — once  high  in  my  esteem — 
are  hurled  down  :  you  —once  intimate  in  my  friendship — are 
cast  out.  Go  !  " 

'  I  went  not :  I  had  heard  her  voice  tremble — seen  her 
lip  quiver  :  I  knew  another  storm  of  tears  would  fall ;  and 
then,  I  believed,  some  calm  and  some  sunshine  must  come, 
and  I  would  wait  for  it. 

'  As  fast,  but  more  quietly  than  before,  the  warm  rain 
streamed  down  :  there  was  another  sound  in  her  weeping  — 
a  softer,  more  regretful  sound.  While  I  watched,  her  eyes 
lifted  to  me  a  gaze  more  reproachful  than  haughty— more 
mournful  than  incensed. 

'"Oh,  Moore!"  said  she:  "it  was  worse  than  Et  tu, 
Brute !  " 

'  I  relieved  myself  by  what  should  have  been  a  sigh,  but 
it  became  a  groan.  A  sense  of  Cain-like  desolation  made  my 
breast  ache. 

' "  There  has  been  en-or  in  what  I  have  done,"  I  said, 
"  and  it  has  won  me  bitter  wages  :  which  I  will  go  and 
spend  far  from  her  who  gave  them." 

'  I  took  iny  hat.     All  the  time  I  could  not  have  borne  to 


550  SHIRLEY 

depart  so ;  and  I  believed  she  would  not  let  me.  Nor  would 
she,  but  for  the  mortal  pang  I  had  given  her  pride,  that 
cowed  her  compassion  and  kept  her  silent. 

'  I  was  obliged  to  turn  back  of  my  own  accord  when  I 
reached  the  door,  to  approach  her  and  to  say, "  Forgive  me." 

'  "  I  could,  if  there  was  not  myself  to  forgive,  too,"  was 
her  reply ;  "  but  to  mislead  a  sagacious  man  so  far,  I  must 
have  done  wrong." 

'  I  broke  out  suddenly  with  some  declamation  I  do  not 
remember  :  I  know  that  it  was  sincere,  and  that  my  wish 
and  aim  were  to  absolve  her  to  herself :  in  fact,  in  her  case, 
self-accusation  was  a  chimera. 

1  At  last,  she  extended  her  hand.  For  the  first  time  I 
wished  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and  kiss  her.  I  did  kiss  her 
hand  many  times. 

'  "  Some  day  we  shall  be  friends  again,"  she  said,  "  when 
you  have  had  time  to  read  my  actions  and  motives  in  a  true 
light,  and  not  so  horribly  to  misinterpret  them.  Time  may 
give  you  the  right  key  to  all :  then,  perhaps,  you  will  com- 
prehend me  ;  and  then  we  shall  be  reconciled." 

'  Farewell  drops  rolled  slow  down  her  cheeks :  she  wiped 
them  away. 

'  "  I  am  sorry  for  what  has  happened — deeply  sorry,"  she 
sobbed.  So  was  I  God  knows !  Thus  were  we  severed.' 

'  A  queer  tale  !  '  commented  Mr.  Yorke. 

'  I'll  do  it  no  more,'  vowed  his  companion  :  '  never  more 
will  I  mention  marriage  to  a  woman,  unless  I  feel  love. 
Henceforth,  Credit  and  Commerce  may  take  care  of  them- 
selves. Bankruptcy  may  come  when  it  lists.  I  have  done 
with  slavish  fear  of  disaster.  I  mean  to  work  diligently, 
wait  patiently,  bear  steadily.  Let  the  worst  come — 1  will 
take  an  axe  and  an  emigrant's  berth,  and  go  out  with  Louis 
to  the  West — he  and  I  have  settled  it.  No  woman  shall 
ever  again  look  at  me  as  Miss  Keeldar  looked — ever  again 
feel  towards  me  as  Miss  Keeldar  felt :  in  no  woman's 
presence  will  I  ever  again  stand  at  once  such  a  fool  and 
such  a  knave — such  a  brute  and  such  a  puppy.' 


RUSHEDGU,  A  CONFESSIONAL  551 

'  Tut ! '  said  the  imperturbable  Yorke,  '  you  make  too 
much  of  it ;  but  still,  I  say,  I  am  capped :  firstly,  that  she 
did  not  love  you ;  and,  secondly,  that  you  did  not  love  her. 
You  are  both  young ;  you  are  both  handsome  ;  you  are  both 
well  enough  for  wit,  and  even  for  temper—  take  you  on  the 
right  side  :  what  ailed  you  that  you  could  not  agree  ?  ' 

'  We  never  have  been — never  could  be  at  home  with  each 
other,  Yorke.  Admire  each  other  as  we  might  at  a  distance, 
still  we  jarred  when  we  came  very  near.  I  have  sat  at  one 
side  of  a  room  and  observed  her  at  the  other ;  perhaps  in  an 
excited,  genial  moment,  when  she  had  some  of  her  favourites 
round  her — her  old  beaux,  for  instance,  yourself  and 
Helstone,  with  whom  she  is  so  playful,  pleasant  and  elo- 
quent. I  have  watched  her  when  she  was  most  natural,  most 
lively,  and  most  lovely ;  my  judgment  has  pronounced  her 
beautiful :  beautiful  she  is,  at  times,  when  her  mood  and  her 
array  partake  of  the  splendid.  I  have  drawn  a  little  nearer, 
feeling  that  our  terms  of  acquaintance  gave  me  the  right  of 
approach ;  I  have  joined  the  circle  round  her  seat,  caught 
her  eye,  and  mastered  her  attention  ;  then  we  have  con- 
versed ;  and  others — thinking  me,  perhaps,  peculiarly  privi- 
leged—  have  withdrawn  by  degrees,  and  left  us  alone.  Were 
we  happy  thus  left?  For  myself,  I  must  say,  No.  Always 
a  feeling  of  constraint  came  over  me  ;  always  I  was  disposed 
to  be  stern  and  strange.  We  talked  politics  and  business  : 
no  soft  sense  of  domestic  intimacy  ever  opened  our  hearts, 
or  thawed  our  language,  and  made  it  flow  easy  and  limpid. 
If  we  had  confidences,  they  were  confidences  of  the  counting- 
house,  not  of  the  heart.  Nothing  in  her  cherished  affection 
in  me — made  me  better,  gentler :  she  only  stirred  my  brain 
and  whetted  my  acuteness  :  she  never  crept  into  my  heart 
or  influenced  its  pulse  ;  and  for  this  good  reason,  no  doubt, 
because  I  had  not  the  secret  of  making  her  love  me.' 

'  Well,  lad,  it  is  a  queer  thing.  I  might  laugh  at  thce, 
and  reckon  to  despise  thy  refinements;  but  as  it  is  dark 
night  and  we  are  by  ourselves,  1  don't  mind  telling  thee 
that  thy  talk  brings  back  a  glimpse  of  my  own  past  life. 


552  SHIRLEY 

Twenty-five  years  ago,  I  tried  to  persuade  a  beautiful  woman 
to  love  me,  and  she  would  not.  I  had  not  the  key  to  her 
nature  :  she  was  a  stone  wall  to  me,  doorless  and  window- 
less.' 

'  But  you  loved  her,  Yorke  :  you  worshipped  Mary  Cave : 
your  conduct,  after  all,  was  that  of  a  man — never  of  a  fortune- 
hunter.' 

'  Ay  !  I  did  love  her :  but  then  she  was  beautiful  as  the 
moon  we  do  not  see  to-night :  there  is  nought  like  her  in 
these  days :  Miss  Helstone,  maybe,  has  a  look  of  her,  but 
nobody  else.' 

'  Who  has  a  look  of  her  ?  ' 

'  That  black-coated  tyrant's  niece  ;    that   quiet,  delicate 
Miss  Helstone.     Many  a  time  I  have  put  on  my  spectacles 
to  look  at  the  lassie  in  church,  because  she  has  gentle  blue 
een,  wi'  long  lashes ;  and,  when  she  sits  in  shadow,  and  is 
very  still  and  very  pale,  and  is,  happen,  about  to  fall  asleep 
wi'  the  length  of  the  sermon  and  the  heat  of  the  biggin'— 
she  is  as  like  one  of  Canova's  marbles  as  aught  else.' 
'  Was  Mary  Cave  in  that  style  ? ' 

'  Far  grander  !  Less  lass-like  and  flesh-like.  You  won- 
dered why  she  hadn't  wings  and  a  crown.  She  was  a  stately, 
peaceful  angel— was  my  Mary.' 

'  And  you  could  not  persuade  her  to  love  you  ? ' 
'  Not  with  all  I  could  do ;  though  I  prayed  Heaven  many 
a  time,  on  my  bended  knee,  to  help  me." 

'  Mary  Cave  was  not  what  you  think  her,  Yorke  — I  have 
seen  her  picture  at  the  Rectory.  She  is  no  angel,  but  a  fair, 
regular- featured,  taciturn-looking  woman — rather  too  white 
and  lifeless  for  my  taste.  But — supposing  she  had  been 
something  better  than  she  was — 

'  Robert,'  interrupted  Yorke,  '  I  could  fell  you  off  your 
horse  at  this  moment.  However,  I'll  hold  my  hand. 
Reason  tells  me  you  are  right,  and  I  am  wrong.  I  know 
well  enough  that  the  passion  I  still  have  is  only  the  remnant 
of  an  illusion.  If  Miss  Cave  had  possessed  either  feeling  o: 
sense,  she  could  not  have  been  so  perfectly  impassible  to  my 


EUSHEDGE,  A  CONFESSIONAL  553 

regard  as  she  showed  hersalf — she  must  have  preferred  me 
to  that  copper-faced  despot.' 

'  Supposing,  Yorke,  she  had  been  educated  (no  women 
were  educated  in  those  days)  :  supposing  she  had  possessed 
a  thoughtful,  original  mind,  a  love  of  knowledge,  a  wish  for 
information,  which  she  took  an  artless  delight  in  receiving 
from  your  lips,  and  having  measured  out  to  her  by  your 
hand :  supposing  her  conversation — when  she  sat  at  your 
side — was  fertile,  varied,  imbued  with  a  picturesque  grace 
and  genial  interest,  quiet  flowing  but  clear  and  bounteous ; 
supposing  that  when  you  stood  near  her  by  chance,  or  when 
you  sat  near  her  by  design,  comfort  at  once  became  your 
atmosphei'e,  and  content  your  element ;  supposing  that 
whenever  her  face  was  under  your  gaze,  or  her  idea  filled 
your  thoughts,  you  gradually  ceased  to  be  hard  and  anxious, 
and  pure  affection,  love  of  home,  thirst  for  sweet  discourse, 
unselfish  longing  to  protect  and  cherish,  replaced  the  sordid, 
cankering  calculations  of  your  trade ;  supposing — with  all 
this — that  many  a  time,  when  you  had  been  so  happy  as  to 
possess  your  Mary's  little  hand,  you  had  felt  it  tremble  as 
you  held  it — just  as  a  warm  little  bird  trembles  when  you 
take  it  from  its  nest ;  supposing  you  had  noticed  her  shrink 
into  the  background  on  your  entrance  into  a  room,  yet  if  you 
sought  her  in  her  retreat  she  welcomed  you  with  the  swreetest 
smile  that  ever  lit  a  fair  virgin  face,  and  only  turned  her 
eyes  from  the  encounter  of  your  own,  lest  their  clearness 
should  reveal  too  much  ;  supposing,  in  short,  your  Mary  had 
been— not  cold,  but  modest ;  not  vacant,  but  reflective  ;  not 
obtuse,  but  sensitive  ;  not  inane,  but  innocent ;  not  prudish, 
but  pure — would  you  have  left  her  to  court  another  woman 
for  her  wealth  ?  ' 

Mr.  Yorke  raised  his  hat,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
handkerchief. 

'  The  moon  is  up,'  was  his  first  not  quite  relevant  remark, 
pointing  with  his  whip  across  the  moor.  '  There  she  is, 
rising  into  the  haze,  staring  at  us  wi'  a  strange  red  glower. 
She  is  no  more  silver  than  old  Helstoue's  brow  is  ivory. 


554  SHIRLEY 

What  does  she  mean  by  leaning  her  cheek  on  Eusheige  i' 
that  way,  and  looking  at  us  wi'  a  scowl  and  a  menace  ? ' 

'  Yorke,  if  Mary  had  loved  you  silently,  yet  faithfully — 
chastely,  yet  fervently — as  you  would  wish  your  wife  to  love, 
would  you  have  left  her  ?  ' 

'  Robert !  '  he  lifted  his  arm  :  he  held  it  suspended,  and 
paused.  '  Robert !  this  is  a  queer  world,  arid  men  are 
made  of  the  queerest  dregs  that  Chaos  churned  up  in  her 
ferment.  I  might  swear  sounding  oaths — oaths  that  would 
make  the  poachers  think  there  was  a  bittern  booming  in 
Bilberry  Moss— that,  in  the  case  you  put,  Death  only  should 
have  parted  me  from  Mary.  But  I  have  lived  in  the  world 
fifty-five  years  ;  I  have  been  forced  to  study  human  nature  ; 
and — to  speak  a  dark  truth — the  odds  are,  if  Mary  had 
loved  and  not  scorned  me ;  if  I  had  been  secure  of  her 
affection,  certain  of  her  constancy,  been  irritated  by  no 
doubts,  stung  by  no  humiliations — the  odds  are  '  (he  let  his 
hand  fall  heavy  on  the  saddle) — '  the  odds  are,  I  should 
have  left  her  !  ' 

They  rode  side  by  side  in  silence.  Ere  either  spoke  again, 
they  were  on  the  other  side  of  Rushedge  :  Briarfield  lights 
starred  the  purple  skirt  of  the  moor.  Robert,  being  the 
youngest,  and  having  less  of  the  past  to  absorb  him  than  his 
comrade,  recommenced  first. 

'  I  believe— I  daily  find  it  proved — that  we  can  get 
nothing  in  this  world  worth  keeping,  not  so  much  as  a  prin- 
ciple or  a  conviction,  except  out  of  purifying  flame,  or  through 
strengthening  peril.  We  err ;  we  fall ;  we  are  humbled — then 
we  walk  more  carefully.  We  greedily  eat  and  drink  poison  out 
of  the  gilded  cup  of  vice,  or  from  the  beggar's  wallet  of  avarice ; 
we  are  sickened,  degraded ;  everything  good  in  us  rebels 
against  us  ;  our  souls  rise  bitterly  indignant  against  our 
bodies  ;  there  is  a  period  of  civil  war ;  if  the  soul  has  strength, 
it  conquers  and  rules  thereafter.' 

'  What  art  thou  going  to  do  now,  Robert  ?  What  are 
thy  plans  ? ' 

'  Fi.ir  my  private  plans,  I'll  keep  them  to  myself  ;  which 


BUSHEDGE,  A   CONFESSIONAL  555 

is  very  easy,  as  at  present  I  have  none :  no  private  life  is 
permitted  a  man  in  my  position,  a  man  in  debt.  For  my 
public  plans,  my  views  are  a  little  altered.  While  I  was  in 
Birmingham,  I  looked  a  little  into  reality,  considered  closely, 
and  at  their  source,  the  causes  of  the  present  troubles  of 
this  country ;  I  did  the  same  in  London.  Unknown,  I  could 
go  where  I  pleased,  mix  with  whom  I  would.  I  went  where 
there  was  want  of  food,  of  fuel,  of  clothing ;  where  there  was 
no  occupation  and  no  hope.  I  saw  some,  with  naturally 
elevated  tendencies  and  good  feelings,  kept  down  amongst 
sordid  privations  and  harassing  griefs.  I  saw  many 
originally  low,  and  to  whom  lack  of  education  left  scarcely 
anything  but  animal  wants,  disappointed  in  those  wants, 
ahungered,  athirst  and  desperate  as  famished  animals.  I 
saw  what  taught  my  brain  a  new  lesson,  and  filled  my  breast 
with  fresh  feelings.  I  have  no  intention  to  profess  more 
softness  or  sentiment  than  I  have  hitherto  professed  ;  mutiny 
and  ambition  I  regard  as  I  have  always  regarded  them  :  I 
should  resist  a  riotous  mob  just  as  heretofore  :  I  should  open 
on  the  scent  of  a  runaway  ringleader  as  eagerly  as  ever,  and 
run  him  down  as  relentlessly,  and  follow  him  up  to  condign 
punishment  as  rigorously  ;  but  I  should  do  it  now  chiefly  for 
the  sake  and  the  security  of  those  he  misled.  Something 
there  is  to  look  to,  Yorke,  beyond  a  man's  personal  interest : 
beyond  the  advancement  of  well-laid  schemes ;  beyond  even 
the  discharge  of  dishonouring  debts.  To  respect  himself,  a 
man  must  believe  he  renders  justice  to  his  fellow-men. 
Unless  I  am  more  considerate  to  ignoi'ance,  more  forbearing 
to  suffering,  than  I  have  hitherto  been,  I  shall  scorn  myself 
as  grossly  unjust.  What  now  ?  '  he  said,  addressing  his 
horse,  which,  hearing  the  ripple  of  water,  and  feeling  thirsty, 
turned  to  a  way-side  trough,  where  the  moonbeam  was 
playing  in  a  crystal  eddy. 

'  Yorke,'  pursued  Moore,  '  ride  on :  I  must  let  him 
drink.' 

Yorke  accordingly  rode  slowly  forwards,  occupying  himself 
as  he  advanced,  in  discriminating,  amongst  the  many  lights 


556  SHIRLEY 

now  spangling  the  distance,  those  of  Briarmains.  Stilbro' 
Moor  was  left  behind  :  plantations  rose  dusk  on  either  hand  ; 
they  were  descending  the  hill :  below  them  lay  the  valley 
with  its  populous  parish  :  they  felt  already  at  home. 

Surrounded  no  longer  by  heath,  it  was  not  startling  to 
Mr.  Yorke  to  see  a  hat  rise,  and  to  hear  a  voice  speak 
behind  the  wall.  The  words,  however,  were  peculiar. 

'  When  the  wicked  perisheth,  there  is  shouting,'  it  said ; 
and  added,  '  As  the  whirlwind  passeth,  so  is  the  wicked  no 
more  '  (with  a  deeper  growl) ;  '  terrors  take  hold  of  him  as 
waters ;  hell  is  naked  before  him.  He  shall  die  without 
knowledge.' 

A  fierce  flash  and  sharp  crack  violated  the  calm  of 
night.  Yorke,  ere  he  turned,  knew  the  four  convicts  of 
Birmingham  were  avenged. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI 

UNCLE   AND   NIECE 

THE  die  was  cast.  Sir  Philip  Nunnely  knew  it :  Shirley 
knew  it :  Mr.  Sympson  knew  it.  That  evening,  when  all 
the  Fieldhead  family  dined  at  Nunnely  Priory,  decided  the 
business. 

Two  or  three  things  conduced  to  bring  the  baronet  to  a 
point.  He  had  observed  that  Miss  Keeldar  looked  pensive 
and  delicate.  This  new  phase  in  her  demeanour  smote  him 
on  his  weak  or  poetic  side  :  a  spontaneous  sonnet  brewed  in 
his  brain  ;  and  while  it  was  still  working  there,  one  of  his 
eisters  persuaded  his  lady-love  to  sit  down  to  the  piano  and 
sing  a  ballad — one  of  Sir  Philip's  own  ballads.  It  was  the 
least  elaborate,  the  least  affected — out  of  all  comparison  the 
best  of  his  numerous  efforts. 

It  chanced  that  Shirley,  the  moment  before,  had  been 
gazing  from  a  window  down  on  the  park ;  she  had  seen  that 
stormy  moonlight  which  '  le  Professeur  Louis '  was,  perhaps, 
at  the  same  instant  contemplating  from  her  own  oak-parlour 
lattice  ;  she  had  seen  the  isolated  trees  of  the  domain — 
broad,  strong,  spreading  oaks,  and  high-towering  heroic 
beeches — wrestling  with  the  gale.  Her  ear  had  caught  the  full 
roar  of  the  forest  lower  down  ;  the  swift  rushing  of  clouds, 
the  moon,  to  the  eye,  hasting  swifter  still,  had  crossed  her 
vision  :  she  turned  from  sight  and  sound — touched,  if  not 
rapt, — wakened  if  not  inspired. 

She  sang,  as  requested.  There  was  much  about  love  in 
the  ballad  :  faithful  love  that  refused  to  abandon  its  object; 
love  that  disaster  could  not  shake  ;  love  that,  in  calamity 
waxed  fonder,  in  poverty  clung  closer.  The  words  were  set 


668  SHIRLEY 

to  a  fine  old  air — in  themselves  they  were  simple  and  sweet : 
perhaps  when  read,  they  wanted  force  ;  when  well  sung, 
they  wanted  nothing.  Shirley  sang  them  well :  she  breathed 
into  the  feeling,  softness ;  she  poured  round  the  passion, 
force :  her  voice  was  fine  that  evening ;  its  expression 
dramatic  :  she  impressed  all,  and  charmed  one. 

On  leaving  the  instrument,  she  went  to  the  fire,  and  sat 
down  on  a  seat — semi-stool,  semi-cushion  :  the  ladies  were 
round  her — none  of  them  spoke.  The  Misses  Sympson  and 
the  Misses  Nunnely  looked  upon  her,  as  quiet  poultry  might 
look  on  an  egret,  an  ibis,  or  any  other  strange  fowl.  What 
made  her  sing  so  ?  They  never  sang  so.  Was  it  proper  to 
sing  with  such  expression,  with  such  originality — so  unlike 
a  school-girl  ?  Decidedly  not :  it  was  strange,  it  was 
unusual.  What  was  strange  must  be  wrong;  what  was 
unusual  must  be  improper.  Shirley  was  judged. 

Moreover,  old  Lady  Nunnely  eyed  her  stonily  from  her 
great  chair  by  the  fireside :  her  gaze  said,  '  This,  woman  is 
not  of  mine  or  my  daughters'  kind  :  I  object  to  her  as  my 
son's  wife.' 

Her  son,  catching  the  look,  read  its  meaning :  he  grew 
alarmed  :  what  he  so  wished  to  win,  there  was  danger  he 
might  lose.  He  must  make  haste. 

The  room  they  were  in  had  once  been  a  picture-gallery. 
Sir  Philip's  father — Sir  Monckton — had  converted  it  into  a 
saloon  ;  but  still  it  had  a  shadowy,  long-withdrawing  look. 
A  deep  recess  with  a  window — a  recess  that  held  one  couch, 
one  table,  and  a  fairy  cabinet,  formed  a  room  within  a  room. 
Two  persons  standing  there  might  interchange  a  dialogue, 
and,  so  it  were  neither  long  nor  loud,  none  be  the  wiser. 

Sir  Philip  induced  two  of  his  sisters  to  perpetrate  a  duet; 
he  gave  occupation  to  the  Misses  Syrnpson  :  the  elder  ladies 
were  conversing  together.  He  was  pleased  to  remark  that, 
meantime,  Shirley  rose  to  look  at  the  pictures.  He  had  a 
tale  to  tell  about  one  ancestress,  whose  dark  beauty  seemed 
as  that  of  a  flower  of  the  south  :  he  joined  her,  and  began  to 
tell  it. 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  559 

There  were  mementoes  of  the  same  lady  in  the  cabinet 
adorning  the  recess ;  and  while  Shirley  was  stooping  to 
examine  the  missal  and  the  rosary  on  the  inlaid  shelf,  and 
while  the  Misses  Nunnely  indulged  in  a  prolonged  screech, 
guiltless  of  expression,  pure  of  originality,  perfectly  conven- 
tional and  absolutely  unmeaning,  Sir  Philip  stooped  too,  and 
whispered  a  few  hurried  sentences.  At  first,  Miss  Keeldar 
was  struck  so  still,  you  might  have  fancied  that  whisper  a 
charm  which  had  changed  her  to  a  statue ;  but  she  presently 
looked  up  and  answered.  They  parted.  Miss  Keeldar 
returned  to  the  fire,  and  resumed  her  seat :  the  baronet 
gazed  after  her,  then  went  and  stood  behind  his  sisters. 
Mr.  Sympson — Mr.  Sympson  only — had  marked  the 
pantomime. 

That  gentleman  drew  his  own  conclusions.  Had  he  been 
as  acute  as  he  was  meddling,  as  profound  as  he  was  prying, 
he  might  have  found  that  in  Sir  Philip's  face  whereby  to 
correct  his  inference.  Ever  shallow,  hasty,  and  positive,  he 
went  home  quite  cock-a-hoop. 

He  was  not  a  man  that  kept  secrets  well :  when  elate  on 
a  subject,  he  could  not  avoid  talking  about  it.  The  next 
morning,  having  occasion  to  employ  his  son's  tutor  as  his 
secretary,  he  must  needs  announce  to  him,  in  mouthing 
accents,  and  with  much  flimsy  pomp  of  manner,  that  he  had 
better  hold  himself  prepared  for  a  return  to  the  south,  at  an 
early  day,  as  the  important  business  which  had  detained 
him  (Mr.  Sympson)  so  long  in  Yorkshire,  was  now  on  the 
eve  of  fortunate  completion :  his  anxious  and  laborious 
efforts  were  likely,  at  last,  to  be  crowned  with  the  happiest 
success :  a  truly  eligible  addition  was  about  to  be  made  to 
the  family  connections. 

'In  Sir  Philip  Nunnely?'  Louis  Moore  conjectured. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Sympson  treated  himself  simultaneously 
to  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  a  chuckling  laugh,  checked  only  by  a 
sudden  choke  of  dignity,  and  an  order  to  the  tutor  to  proceed 
with  business. 

For  a  day  or  two,  Mr.  Sympson  continued  as  bland  as 


560  SHIBLEY 

oil ;  but  also  he  seemed  to  sit  on  pins,  and  his  gait,  when  he 
walked,  emulated  that  of  a  hen  treading  a  hot  girdle.  He 
was  for  ever  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  listening  for 
chariot- wheels  :  Bluebeard's  wife — Sisera's  mother — were 
nothing  to  him.  He  waited  when  the  matter  should  be 
opened  in  form  ;  when  himself  should  be  consulted ;  when 
lawyers  should  be  summoned  ;  when  settlement  discussions, 
and  all  the  delicious  worldly  fuss,  should  pompously  begin. 

At  last  there  came  a  letter  ;  he  himself  handed  it  to  Miss 
Keeldar  out  of  the  bag  :  he  knew  the  handwriting  ;  he  knew 
the  crest  on  the  seal.  He  did  not  see  it  opened  and  read, 
for  Shirley  took  it  to  her  own  room  ;  nor  did  he  see  it 
answered,  for  she  wrote  her  reply  shut  up,  and  was  very  long 
about  it, — the  best  part  of  a  day.  He  questioned  her 
whether  it  was  answered  ;  she  responded,  '  Yes." 

Again  he  waited — waited  in  silence — absolutely  not 
daring  to  speak  :  kept  mute  by  something  in  Shirley's  face, — 
a  very  awful  something— inscrutable  to  him  as  the  writing 
on  the  wall  to  Belshazzar.  He  was  moved  more  than  once 
to  call  Daniel — in  the  person  of  Louis  Moore,  and  to  ask 
an  interpretation ;  but  his  dignity  forbade  the  familiarity. 
Daniel  himself,  perhaps,  had  his  own  private  difficulties 
connected  with  that  baffling  bit  of  translation  :  he  looked 
like  a  student  for  whom  grammars  are  blank,  and  diction- 
aries dumb.  

Mr.  Sympson  had  been  out,  to  while  away  an  anxious 
hour  in  the  society  of  his  friends  at  De  Walden  Hall.  He 
returned  a  little  sooner  than  was  expected  ;  his  family  and 
Miss  Keeldar  were  assembled  in  the  oak-parlour ;  addressing 
the  latter,  he  requested  her  to  step  with  him  into  another 
room  :  he  wished  to  have  with  her  a  '  strictly  private 
interview.' 

She  rose,  asking  no  questions,  and  professing  no 
surprise. 

'Very  well,  sir,'  she  said  in  the  tone  of  a  determined 
person,  who  is  informed  that  the  dentist  is  come  to  extract 


UNCLE  AND   NIECE  561 

that  large  double  tooth  of  his,  from  which  he  has  suffered 
such  a  purgatory  this  month  past.  She  left  her  sewing  and 
her  thimble  in  the  window-seat,  and  followed  her  uncle 
where  he  led. 

Shut  into  the  drawing-room,  the  pair  took  seats,  each  in 
an  armchair,  placed  opposite,  a  few  yards  between  them. 

'  I  have  been  to  De  Walden  Hall,'  said  Mr.  Sympson. 
He  paused.  Miss  Keeldar's  eyes  were  on  the  pretty  white 
and  green  carpet.  That  information  required  no  response  : 
she  gave  none. 

'  I  have  learned,'  he  went  on,  slowly, — '  I  have  learned  a 
circumstance  which  surprises  me.' 

Resting  her  cheek  on  her  forefinger,  she  waited  to  be  told 
what  circumstance. 

'  It  seems  that  Nunnely  Priory  is  shut  up ;  that  the 

family  are  gone  back  to  their  place  in shire.  It  seems 

that  the  baronet — that  the  baronet — that  Sir  Philip  himself 
has  accompanied  his  mother  and  sisters.' 

'  Indeed  !  '  said  Shirley. 

'May  I  ask  if  you  share  the  amazement  with  which  I 
received  this  news  ? ' 

'  No,  sir.' 

'  Is  it  news  to  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  I  mean — I  mean — '  pursued  Mr.  Sympson,  now  fidgeting 
in  his  chair,  quitting  his  hitherto  brief  and  tolerably  clear 
phraseology,  and  returning  to  his  customary  wordy,  confused, 
irritable  style ;  '  I  mean  to  have  a  thorough  explanation.  1 
will  not  be  put  off.  I — I — shall  insist  on  being  heard  ;  and  on 
— on  having  my  own  way.  My  questions  must  be  answered. 
I  will  have  clear,  satisfactory  replies.  I  am  not  to  be  trifled 
with.  (Silence.) 

'It  is  a  strange  and  an  extraordinary  thing — a  very 
singular — a  most  odd  thing  !  I  thought  all  was  right :  knew 
no  other  :  and  there — the  family  are  gone  !  ' 

'  I  suppose,  sir,  they  had  a  right  to  go.' 

'  Sir  Philip  is  gone  ! '  (with  emphasis). 


562  SHIRLEY 

Shirley  raised  her  brows  :  '  Bon  voyage  ! '  said  she. 

'  This  will  not  do :  this  must  be  altered,  ma'am.' 

He  drew  his  chair  forward  ;  he  pushed  it  back ;  he  looked 
perfectly  incensed,  and  perfectly  helpless. 

'  Come,  come,  now,  uncle,'  expostulated  Shirley,  '  do  not 
begin  to  fret  and  fume,  or  we  shall  make  no  sense  of  the 
business.  Ask  me  what  you  want  to  know  :  I  am  as  will- 
ing to  come  to  an  explanation  as  you  :  I  promise  you  truthful 
replies.' 

'  I  want — I  demand  to  know,  Miss  Keeldar,  whether  Sir 
Philip  has  made  you  an  offer  ? ' 

'  He  has.' 

I  You  avow  it  ? ' 

'  I  avow  it.     But  now,  go  on  :  consider  that  point  settled.' 

'  He  made  you  an  offer  that  night  we  dined  at  the 
Priory  ? ' 

'  It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  made  it.     Go  on.' 

'  He  proposed  in  the  recess — in  the  room  that  used  to 
be  a  picture-gallery — that  Sir  Monckton  converted  into  a 
saloon  ? ' 

No  answer. 

'  You  were  both  examining  a  cabinet :  I  saw  it  all :  my 
sagacity  was  not  at  fault — it  never  is.  Subsequently,  you 
received  a  letter  from  him.  On  what  subject — of  what  nature 
were  the  contents  ?  ' 

'  No  matter.' 

'  Ma'am,  is  that  the  way  in  which  you  speak  to  me  ? ' 

Shii-ley's  foot  tapped  quick  on  the  carpet. 

'  There  you  sit,  silent  and  sullen — you  who  promised 
truthful  replies  ! ' 

'  Sir,  I  have  answered  you  thus  far  :  proceed.' 

'  I  should  like  to  see  that  letter.' 

'  You  cannot  see  it.' 

I 1  must  and  shall,  ma'am.     I  am  your  guardian.' 

'  Having  ceased  to  be  a  ward,  I  have  no  guardian.' 
'  Ungrateful     being !      Reared     by    me    as    my    own 
daughter ' 


UNCLE  AND   NIECE  563 

'  Once  more,  uncle,  have  the  kindness  to  keep  to  the 
point.  Let  us  both  remain  cool.  For  my  part,  I  do  not 
wish  to  get  into  a  passion  ;  but,  you  know,  once  drive  me 
beyond  certain  bounds,  I  care  little  what  I  say :  I  am  not 
then  soon  checked.  Listen  !  You  have  asked  me  whether 
Sir  Philip  made  me  an  offer :  that  question  is  answered. 
What  do  you  wish  to  know  next  ? ' 

'  I  desire  to  know  whether  you  accepted  or  refused  him  ? 
and  know  it  I  will.' 

'  Certainly  :  you  ought  to  know  it.     I  refused  him.' 
'  Be  fused  him  !    You  —yo^l)  Shirley  Keeldar,  refused  Sir 
Philip  Nunnely  ? ' 

'  I  did.' 

The  poor  gentleman  bounced  from  his  chair,  and  first 
rushed,  and  then  trotted,  through  the  room. 

'  There  it  is  !     There  it  is  !     There  it  is  !  ' 

1  Sincerely  speaking,  I  am  sorry,  uncle,  you  are  so 
disappointed.' 

Concession — contrition — never  do  any  good  with  some 
people.  Instead  of  softening  and  conciliating,  they  but 
embolden  and  harden  them :  of  that  number  was  Mr. 
Sympson. 

'  I  disappointed  !  What  is  it  to  me  ?  Have  /  an  interest 
in  it?  You  would  insinuate,  perhaps,  that  I  have  motives  ?' 

'  Most  people  have  motives,  of  some  sort,  for  their  actions.' 

'  She  accuses  me  to  my  face  !  I — that  have  been  a  parent 
to  her — she  charges  with  bad  motives  ! ' 

'  Bad  motives,  I  did  not  say.' 

'  And  now  you  prevaricate.     You  have  no  principles  ! ' 

'  Uncle,  you  tire  me  :  I  want  to  go  away.' 

'  Go  you  shall  not !  I  will  be  answered.  What  are  your 
intentions,  Miss  Keeldar  ?  ' 

'  In  what  respect  ?  ' 

'  In  respect  of  matrimony.' 

'  To  be  quiet — and  to  do  just  as  I  please.' 

'  Just  as  you  please  !  The  words  are  to  the  last  degree 
indecorous,' 


564  SHIKLEY 

'  Mr.  Sympson,  I  advise  you  not  to  become  insulting : 
you  know  I  will  not  bear  that.' 

1  You  read  French.  Your  mind  is  poisoned  with  French 
novels.  You  have  imbibed  French  principles.' 

'  The  ground  you  are  treading  now  returns  a  mighty 
hollow  sound  under  your  feet.  Beware  !  ' 

'  It  will  end  in  infamy,  sooner  or  later :  I  have  foreseen 
it  all  along.' 

'  Do  you  assert,  sir,  that  something  in  which  /  am  con- 
cerned will  end  in  infamy  ?  ' 

'That  it  will — that  it  will.  You  said  just  now  you 
would  act  as  you  please.  You  acknowledge  no  rules — no 
limitations.' 

'  Silly  stuff !  and  vulgar  as  silly  !  ' 

'  Eegardless  of  decorum,  you  are  prepared  to  fly  in  the 
face  of  propi'iety.' 

'  You  tire  me,  uncle.' 

'  What,  madam— what  could  be  your  reasons  for  refusing 
Sir  Philip  ? ' 

'  At  last,  there  is  another  sensible  question  :  I  shall  be 
glad  to  reply  to  it.  Sir  Philip  is  too  young  for  me  :  I 
regard  him  as  a  boy  :  all  his  relations — his  mother  especially 
— would  be  annoyed  if  he  married  me  :  such  a  step  would 
embroil  him  with  them  :  I  am  not  his  equal  in  the  world's 
estimation.' 

'  Is  that  all  ?  ' 

'  Our  dispositions  are  not  compatible.' 

'  Why,  a  more  amiable  gentleman  never  breathed.' 

'  He  is  very  amiable — very  excellent — truly  estimable, 
but  not  my  master ;  not  in  one  point.  I  could  not  trust 
myself  with  his  happiness:  I  would  not  undertake  the 
keeping  of  it  for  thousands  :  I  will  accept  no  hand  which 
cannot  hold  me  in  check.' 

'  I  thought  you  liked  to  do  as  you  please  :  you  are  vastly 
inconsistent.' 

'When  I  promise  to  obey,  it  shall  be  under  the  conviction 
that  I  can  keep  that  promise  :  I  could  not  obey  a  youth  like 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  565 

Sir  Philip.  Besides,  he  would  never  command  me :  he 
would  expect  me  always  to  rule — to  guide,  and  I  have  no 
taste  whatever  for  the  office.' 

1  You  no  taste  for  swaggering,  and  subduing,  and  ordering, 
and  ruling  ? ' 

'  Not  ray  husband:  only  my  uncle.' 
'  Where  is  the  difference  ? ' 

'  There  is  a  slight  difference  :  that  is  certain.    And  I  know 
full  well,  any  man  who  wishes  to  live  in  decent  comfort 
with  me  as  a  husband  must  be  able  to  control  me.' 
'  I  wish  you  had  a  real  tyrant.' 

'  A  tyrant  would  not  hold  me  for  a  day — not  for  an  hour. 
I  would  rebel — break  from  him — defy  him.' 

'  Are  you  not  enough  to  bewilder  one's  brain  with  your 
self-contradiction  ?  ' 

'  It  is  evident  I  bewilder  your  brain.' 
'  You   talk  of  Sir  Philip   being   young :   he  is  two-and- 
twenty.' 

'  My  husband  must  be  thirty,  with  the  sense  of  forty.' 
1  You  had  better  pick  out  some  old  man — some  white- 
headed  or  bald-headed  swain.' 
1  No,  thank  you.' 

'  You  could  lead  some  doting  fool :  you  might  pin  him  to 
your  apron.' 

'  I  might  do  that  with  a  boy  :  but  it  is  not  my  vocation. 
Did  I  not  say  I  prefer  a  master  ?  One  in  whose  presence 
I  shall  feel  obliged  and  disposed  to  be  good.  One  whose 
control  my  impatient  temper  must  acknowledge.  A  man 
whose  approbation  can  reward — whose  displeasure  punish 
me.  A  man  I  shall  feel  it  impossible  nob  to  love,  and  very 
possible  to  fear.' 

'What  is  there  to  hinder  you  from  doing  all  (his  with 
Sir  Philip?  He  is  a  baronet;  a  man  of  rank,  property, 
connections,  far  above  yours.  If  you  talk  of  intellect,  he  is 
a  poet. :  he  writes  verses  :  which  you,  I  take  it,  cannot  do, 
with  all  your  cleverness.' 

'  Neither  his  title,  wealth,  pedigree,  nor  poetry,  avail  to 


666  SHIRLEY 

invest  him  with  the  power  I  describe.  These  are  feather- 
weights :  they  want  ballast :  a  measure  of  sound,  solid 
practical  sense  would  have  stood  him  in  better  stead  with 
me.' 

'  You  and  Henry  rave  about  poetry  :  you  used  to  catch 
fire  like  tinder  on  the  subject  when  you  were  a  girl.' 

'  Oh !  uncle,  there  is  nothing  really  valuable  in  this 
world  there  is  nothing  glorious  in  the  world  to  come,  that  is 
not  poetry  !  ' 

'  Marry  a  poet,  then,  in  God's  name ! ' 

'  Show  him  me,  and  I  will.' 

'  Sir  Philip.' 

'  Not  at  all.     You  are  almost  as  good  a  poet  as  he. 

1  Madam,  you  are  wandering  from  the  point.' 

'  Indeed,  uncle,  I  wanted  to  do  so ;  and  I  shall  be  glad 
to  lead  you  away  with  me.  Do  not  let  us  get  out  of  temper 
with  each  other :  it  is  not  worth  while.' 

'  Out  of  temper,  Miss  Keeldar !  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  who  is  out  of  temper.' 

'  I  am  not,  yet.' 

'  If  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  I  am,  I  consider  that  you 
are  guilty  of  impertinence.' 

1  You  will  be  soon,  if  you  go  on  at  that  rate.' 

'  There  it  is  !  With  your  pert  tongue,  you  would  try  the 
patience  of  a  Job.' 

'  I  know  I  should.' 

'  No  levity,  miss  !  This  is  not  a  laughing  matter.  It  is 
an  affair  I  am  resolved  to  probe  thoroughly,  convinced  that 
there  is  mischief  at  the  bottom.  You  described  just  now, 
with  far  too  much  freedom  for  your  years  and  sex,  the  sort 
of  individual  you  would  prefer  as  a  husband. — Pray,  did  you 
paint  from  the  life  ?  ' 

Shirley  opened  her  lips  ;  but  instead  of  speaking  she 
only  glowed  rose-red. 

'  I  shall  have  an  answer  to  that  question,'  affirmed  Mr. 
Symplon,  assuming  vast  courage  and  consequence  on  the 
strength  of  this  symptom  of  confusion. 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  567 

'It  was  an  historical  picture,  uncle,  from  several 
originals.' 

'  Several  originals  !     Bless  my  heart ! ' 

'  I  have  been  in  love  several  times.' 

'  This  is  cynical.' 

'  With  heroes  of  many  nations.' 

4  What  next ?  ' 

'  And  philosophers.' 

'  She  is  mad ' 

'  Don't  ring  the  bell,  uncle  ;  you  will  alarm  my  aunt.' 

'  Your  poor  dear  aunt,  what  a  niece  has  she  !  ' 

1  Once  I  loved  Socrates.' 

'  Pooh !     No  trifling,  ma'am.' 

'  I  admired  Themistocles,  Leonidas,  Epaminondas.' 

1  Miss  Keeldar ' 

'  To  pass  over  a  few  centuries,  Washington  was  a  plain 
man,  but  I  liked  him  :  but,  to  speak  of  the  actual  pre- 
sent  ' 

'  Ah  !  the  actual  present.' 

'  To  quit  crude  school-girl  fancies,  and  come  to  reali- 
ties  ' 

'  Realities !  That  is  the  test  to  which  you  shall  be 
brought,  ma'am.' 

'  To  avow  before  what  altar  I  now  kneel — to  reveal  the 
present  idol  of  my  soul — 

'  You  will  make  haste  about  it,  if  you  please ;  it  is  near 
luncheon  time,  and  confess  you  shall.' 

'  Confess,  I  must  :  my  heart  is  full  of  the  secret ;  it  must 
be  spoken  :  I  only  wish  you  were  Mr.  Helstone  instead  of 
Mr.  Sympson,  you  would  sympathize  with  me  better.' 

'  Madam — it  is  a  question  of  common  sense  and  common 
prudence,  not  of  sympathy  and  sentiment,  and  so  on.  Did 
you  say  it  was  Mr.  Helstone?  ' 

'  Not  precisely,  but  as  near  as  may  be :  they  are  rather 
alike.' 

'  I  will  know  the  name — I  will  have  particulai'S.' 

'  They  positively  are  rather  alike ;  their  very  faces  are 


568  SHIELEY 

not  dissimilar — a*  pair  of  human  falcons — and  dry,  direct, 
decided  both.  But  my  hero  is  the  mightier  of  the  two  :  his 
mind  has  the  clearness  of  the  deep  sea,  the  patience  of  its 
rocks,  the  force  of  its  billows.' 

'  Kant  and  fustian ! ' 

'  I  daresay  he  can  be  harsh  as  a  saw-edge,  and  gruff  as  a 
hungry  raven.' 

'Miss  Keeldar,  does  the  person  reside  in  Briarfield? 
answer  me  that.' 

'  Uncle — I  am  going  to  tell  you — his  name  is  trembling 
on  my  tongue.' 

'  Speak,  girl ! ' 

'  That  was  well  said,  uncle.  "  Speak  girl !  "  it  is  quite 
tragic.  England  has  howled  savagely  against  this  man,  uncle  ; 
and  she  will  oue  day  roar  exultingly  over  him.  He  has  been 
unscared  by  the  howl,  and  he  will  he  unelated  by  the  shout.' 

'  I  said  she  was  mad — she  is.' 

'  This  country  will  change  and  change  again  in  her 
demeanour  to  him  :  he  will  never  change  in  his  duty  to  her. 
Come,  cease  to  chafe,  uncle,  I'll  tell  you  his  name.' 

'  You  shall  tell  me,  or — 

'  Listen  !     Arthur  Wellesley,  Lord  Wellington.' 

Mr.  Sympson  rose  up  furious  :  he  bounced  out  of  the 
room,  but  immediately  bounced  back  again,  shut  the  door, 
and  resumed  his  seat. 

'  Ma'am,  you  shall  tell  me  this  :  will  your  principles 
permit  you  to  marry  a  man  without  money — a  man  below 
you?' 

'  Never  a  man  below  me.' 

(In  a  high  voice.)  '  Will  you,  Miss  Keeldar,  marry  a 
poor  man  ? ' 

'  What  right  have  you,  Mr.  Sympson,  to  ask  me  ?  ' 

'  I  insist  upon  knowing.' 

4  You  don't  go  the  way  to  know.' 

'My  family  respectability  shall  not  be  compromised.' 

4  A  good  resolution  :  keep  it.' 

4  Madam,  it  is  you  who  shall  keep  it.' 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  569 

'  Impossible,  sir,  since  I  form  no  part  of  your  family.' 

'  Do  you  disown  us  ? ' 

'  I  disdain  your  dictatorship.' 

'  Whom  will  you- marry,  Miss  Keeldar?  ' 

'  Not  Mr.  Sam  Wynne,  because  I  scorn  him :  not  Sir 
Philip  Nunnely,  because  I  only  esteem  him.' 

'  Whom  have  you  in  your  eye  ?  ' 

'  Four  rejected  candidates.' 

'  Such  obstinacy  could  not  be,  unless  you  were  under 
improper  influence.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  There  are  certain  phrases  potent 
to  make  my  blood  boil — improper  influence !  What  old 
woman's  cackle  is  that  ?  ' 

'  Are  you  a  young  lady  ?  ' 

'  I  am  a  thousand  times  better.  I  am  an  honest  woman, 
and  as  such  I  will  be  treated.' 

'  Do  you  know '  (leaning  mysteriously  forward,  and 
speaking  with  ghastly  solemnity),  '  do  you  know  the  whole 
neighbourhood  teems  with  rumours  respecting  you  and  a 
bankrupt  tenant  of  yours — the  foreigner  Moore  ?  ' 

1  Does  it  ?  ' 

1  It  does.     Your  name  is  in  every  mouth.' 

'  It  honours  the  lips  it  crosses,  and  I  wish  to  the  gods  it 
may  purify  them.' 

'  Is  it  that  person  who  has  power  to  influence  you  ? ' 

'  Beyond  any  whose  cause  you  have  advocated.' 

'  Is  it  he  you  will  marry  ?  ' 

'  He  is  handsome  and  manly,  and  commanding.' 

1  You  declare  it  to  my  face  !  The  Flemish  knave  !  The 
low  trader  !  ' 

'  He  is  talented,  and  venturous,  and  resolute.  Prince  is 
on  his  brow,  and  ruler  in  his  bearing.' 

'  She  glories  in  it !  She  conceals  nothing  !  No  shame, 
no  fear ! ' 

'  When  we  speak  the  name  of  Moore,  shame  should  be 
forgotten  and  fear  discarded :  the  Moores  know  only  honour 
and  courage.' 


570  SHIRLEY 

'  I  say  she  is  mad.' 

1  You  have  taunted  me  till  my  blood  is  up.  You  have 
worried  me  till  I  turn  again.' 

'  That  Moore  is  the  brother  of  my  son's  tutor.  Would 
you  let  the  Usher  call  you  Sister?  ' 

Bright  and  broad  shone  Shirley's  eye,  as  she  fixed  it  on 
her  questioner  now. 

'  No :  no.  Not  for  a  province  of  possession — not  for  a 
century  of  life.' 

'  You  cannot  separate  the  husband  from  his  family.' 

'  What  then  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Louis  Moore's  sister  you  will  be.' 

'  Mr.  Sympson I  am  sick  at  heart  with  all  this 

weak  trash  :  I  will  bear  no  more.  Your  thoughts  are  not 
my  thoughts,  your  aims  are  not  my  aims,  your  gods  are  not 
my  gods.  We  do  not  view  things  in  the  same  light ;  we  do 
not  measure  them  by  the  same  standard  ;  we  hardly  speak 
in  the  same  tongue.  Let  us  part. 

'  It  is  not,'  she  resumed,  much  excited — '  It  is  not  that  I 
hate  you ;  you  are  a  good  sort  of  man :  perhaps  you  mean 
well  in  your  way ;  but  we  cannot  suit :  we  are  ever  at 
variance.  You  annoy  me  with  small  meddling,  with  petty 
tyranny ;  you  exasperate  my  temper,  and  make  and  keep 
me  passiona'e.  As  to  your  small  maxims,  your  narrow 
rules,  your  little  prejudices,  aversions,  dogmas,  bundle  them 
off:  Mr.  Sympson  -go,  offer  them  a  sacrifice  to  the  deity 
you  worship  ;  I'll  none  of  them  :  I  wash  my  hands  of  the 
lot.  I  walk  by  another  creed,  light,  faith,  and  hope  than 
you.' 

'  Another  creed  !     I  believe  she  is  an  infidel.' 

'  An  infidel  to  your  religion  ;  an  atheist  to  your  god.' 

'An— atheist!  !  /' 

'Your  god,  sir,  is  the  World.  In  my  eyes,  you  too,  if 
not  an  infidel,  are  an  idolater.  I  conceive  that  you  ignorantly 
worship  :  in  all  things  you  appear  to  me  too  superstitious. 
Sir,  your  .^O'l,  your  great  Bel,  your  fish-tailed  Dagon,  rises 
before  me  as  a  demon.  You,  and  such  as  you,  have  raised 


UNCLE   AND   NIECE  571 

him  to  a  throne,  put  on  him  a  crown,  given  him  a  sceptre. 
Behold  how  hideously  he  governs  !  See  him  busied  at  the 
work  he  likes  best — making  marriages.  He  binds  the  young 
to  the  old,  the  strong  to  the  imbecile.  He  stretches  out  the 
arm  of  Mezentius  and  fetters  the  dead  to  the  living.  In  his 
realm  there  is  hatred —secret  hatred  :  there  is  disgust — 
unspoken  disgust :  there  is  treachery — family  treachery : 
there  is  vice — deep,  deadly,  domestic  vice.  In  his  dominions, 
children  grow  unloving  between  parents  who  have  never 
loved  :  infants  are  nursed  on  deception  from  their  very  birth ; 
they  are  reared  in  an  atmosphere  corrupt  with  lies.  Your 
god  rules  at  the  bridal  of  kings — look  at  your  royal 
dynasties  !  Your  deity  is  the  deity  of  foreign  aristocracies — 
analyse  the  blue  blood  of  Spain  !  Your  god  is  the  Hymen 
of  France  —what  is  French  domestic  life  ?  All  that  surrounds 
him  hastens  to  decay :  all  declines  and  degenerates  under 
his  sceptre.  Your  god  is  a  masked  Death.' 

'  This  language  is  terrible !  My  daughters  and  you  must 
associate  no  longer,  Miss  Keeldar :  there  is  danger  in 
such  companionship.  Had  I  known  you  a  little  earlier 
— but,  extraordinary  as  I  thought  you,  I  could  not  have 
believed ' 

'  Now,  sir,  do  you  begin  to  be  aware  that  it  is  useless  to 
scheme  for  me  ?  That,  in  doing  so,  you  but  sow  the  wind 
to  reap  the  whirlwind  ?  I  sweep  your  cobweb-projects  from 
my  path,  that  I  may  pass  on  unsullied.  I  am  anchored  on 
a  resolve  you  cannot  shake.  My  heart — my  conscience 
shall  dispose  of  my  hand — they  only.  Know  this  at 
last.' 

Mr.  Sympson  was  becoming  a  little  bewildered. 

'  Never  heard  such  language  ! '  he  muttered  again  and 
again.  '  Never  was  so  addressed  in  my  life — never  was  so 
used.' 

'  You  are  quite  confused,  sir.  You  had  better  withdraw, 
or  I  will.' 

He  rose  hastily. 

'  We  must  leave  this  place  :  they  must  pack  up  at  once.' 


572  SHIRLEY 

'  Do  not  hurry  my  aunt  and  cousins  :  give  them 
time.' 

'  No  more  intercourse  :  she's  not  proper.' 

He  made  his  way  to  the  door  ;  he  came  back  for  his 
handkerchief ;  he  dropped  his  snuff-box  :  leaving  the  con- 
tents scattered  on  the  carpet,  he  stumbled  out :  Tartar  lay 
outside  across  the  mat — Mr.  Sympson  almost  fell  over  him  : 
in  the  climax  of  his  exasperation  he  hurled  an  oath  at  the 
dog,  and  a  coarse  epithet  at  his  mistress. 

'  Poor  Mr.  Syrnpson !  He  is  both  feeble  and  vulgar,' 
said  Shirley  to  herself.  '  My  head  aches,  and  I  am  tired,' 
she  added  ;  and  leaning  her  head  upon  a  cushion,  she  softly 
subsided  from  excitement  to  repose.  One,  entering  the 
room  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards,  found  her  asleep. 
When  Shirley  had  been  agitated,  she  generally  took  this 
natural  refreshment :  it  would  come  at  her  call. 

The  intruder  paused  in  her  unconscious  presence,  and 
said — '  Miss  Keeldar.' 

Perhaps  his  voice  harmonized  with  some  dream  into 
which  she  was  passing — it  did  not  startle,  it  hardly  roused 
her :  without  opening  her  eyes,  she  but  turned  her  head  a 
little,  so  that  her  cheek  and  profile,  before  hidden  by  her 
arm,  became  visible  :  she  looked  rosy,  happy,  half-smiling, 
but  her  eyelashes  were  wet :  she  had  wept  in  slumber ;  or 
perhaps,  before  dropping  asleep,  a  few  natural  tears  had 
fallen  after  she  had  heard  that  epithet :  no  man — no 
woman  is  always  strong,  always  able  to  bear  up  against  the 
unjust  opinion — the  vilifying  word  :  calumny,  even  from  the 
mouth  of  a  fool,  will  sometimes  cut  into  unguarded  feelings. 
Shirley  looked  like  a  child  that  had  been  naughty  and 
punished,  but  was  now  forgiven  and  at  rest. 

'  Miss  Keeldar,'  again  said  the  voice  :  this  time  it  woke 
her  ;  she  looked  up  and  saw  at  her  side  Louis  Moore — not 
close  at  her  side,  but  standing,  with  arrested  step,  two  or 
three  yards  from  her. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Moore  ! '  she  said  ;  '  I  was  afraid  it  was  my 
uncle  again  :  he  and  I  have  quarrelled.' 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  573 

'  Mr.  Sympson  should  let  you  alone,'  was  the  reply  :  '  can 
he  not  see  that  you  are  as  yet  far  from  strong  ? ' 

'  I  assure  you  he  did  not  find  me  weak :  I  did  not  cry 
when  he  was  here." 

'  He  is  about  to  evacuate  Fieldhead — so  he  says.  He  is 
now  giving  orders  to  his  family  :  he  has  been  in  the  school- 
room issuing  commands  in  a  manner  which,  I  suppose,  was 
a  continuation  of  that  with  which  he  has  harassed  you.' 

'  Are  you  and  Henry  to  go  ? ' 

'  I  believe,  as  far  as  Henry  is  concerned,  that  was  the 
tenor  of  his  scarcely-intelligible  directions ;  but  he  may 
change  all  to-morrow :  he  is  just  in  that  mood  when  you 
cannot  depend  on  his  consistency  for  two  consecutive  hours  : 
I  doubt  whether  he  will  leave  you  for  weeks  yet.  To  myself 
he  addressed  some  words  which  will  require  a  little  attention 
and  comment  by-and-by,  when  I  have  time  to  bestow  on 
them.  At  the  moment  he  came  in,  I  was  busied  with  a  note 
I  had  got  from  Mr.  Yorke — so  fully  busied  that  I  cut  short 
the  interview  with  him  somewhat  abruptly :  I  left  him 
raving :  here  is  the  note — I  wish  you  to  see  it — it  refers  to 
my  brother  Eobert.'  And  he  looked  at  Shirley. 

'  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  news  of  him  :  is  he  coming 
borne  ?  ' 

'  He  is  come :  he  is  in  Yorkshire :  Mr.  Yorke  went 
yesterday  to  Stilbro'  to  meet  him.' 

'  Mr.  Moore — something  is  wrong ?  ' 

'  Did  my  voice  tremble  ?  He  is  now  at  Briarmains — 
and  I  am  going  to  see  him.' 

'  What  has  occurred  ?  ' 

'  If  you  turn  so  pale  I  shall  be  sorry  I  havo  spoken. 
It  might  have  been  worse  :  Robert  is  not  dead,  but  much 
hurt.1 

'  Oh  !  sir  ;  it  is  you  who  are  pale.     Sit  down  near  me.' 

'  Read  the  note — let  me  open  it.' 

Miss  Keeldar  read  the  note  :  it  briefly  signified  that  last 
night  Robert  Moore  had  been  shot  at  from  behind  the  wall 
of  Milldean  plantation,  at  the  foot  of  the  Brow  ;  that  he  was 


574 

wounded  severely,  but  it  was  hoped  not  fatally  :  of  tho 
assassin,  or  assassins,  nothing  was  known — they  had  escaped. 
'  No  doubt,'  Mr.  Yorke  observed,  '  it  was  done  in  revenge  : 
it  was  a  pity  ill-will  had  ever  been  raised ;  but  that  could 
not  be  helped  now.' 

'  He  is  my  only  brother,'  said  Louis,  as  Shirley  returned 
the  note.  '  I  cannot  hear  unmoved  that  ruffians  have  lain 
in  wait  for  him,  and  shot  him  down  like  some  wild  beast 
from  behind  a  wall.' 

'  Be  comforted :  be  hopeful.  He  will  get  better —  I  know 
he  will.' 

Shirley,  solicitous  to  soothe,  held  her  hand  over  Mr. 
Moore's,  as  it  lay  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  :  she  just  touched 
it  lightly,  scarce  palpably. 

'  Well,  give  me  your  hand,'  he  said ;  '  it  will  be  for  the 
first  time :  it  is  in  a  moment  of  calamity— give  it  me.' 

Awaiting  neither  consent  nor  refusal,  he  took  what  he 
asked. 

'  I  am  going  to  Briarmains  now,'  he  went  on.  '  I  \vant 
you  to  step  over  to  the  Kectory,  and  tell  Caroline  Helstone 
what  has  happened:  will  you  do  this?  she  will  hear  it 
best  from  you.' 

'  Immediately,'  said  Shirley,  with  docile  promptitude. 
'  Ought  I  to  say  that  there  is  no  danger?  ' 

'  Say  so.' 

'  You  will  come  back  soon,  and  let  me  know  more?' 

'  I  will  either  come  or  write.' 

'  Trust  me  for  watching  over  Caroline.  I  will  com- 
municate with  your  sister,  too  ;  but,  doubtless,  she  is  already 
with  Eobert  ?  ' 

'  Doubtless  ;  or  will  be  soon.     Good  morning,  now.' 

'  You  will  boar  up,  come  what  may  ?  ' 

'  We  shall  sco  that." 

Shirley's  fingers  were  obliged  to  withdraw  from  the 
Tutor':;  :  Louis  was  obliged  to  relinquish  that  haud  folded, 
clasped,  hidden  in  his  own. 

'  I  thought  I  should  have  had  to  support  her,'  he  said,  as 


UNCLE   AND   NIECE  575 

he  walked  towards  Briarmains,  '  and  it  is  she  who  has  made 
me  strong.  That  look  of  pity— that  gentle  touch!  No 
down  was  ever  softer — no  elixir  more  potent !  It  lay  like 
a  snowflake  :  it  thrilled  like  lightning.  A  thousand  times 
I  have  longed  to  possess  that  hand — to  have  it  in  mine.  I 
have  possessed  it  —for  five  minutes  I  held  it.  Her  fingers 
and  mine  can  never  be  strangers  more — having  met  once, 
they  must  meet  again.' 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    SCHOOLBOY   AND    THE    WOOD-NYMPH 

BRIARMAINS  being  nearer  than  the  Hollow,  Mr.  Yorke  had 
conveyed  his  young  coimade  there.  He  had  seen  him  laid 
in  the  best  bed  of  the  house,  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  been 
one  of  his  own  sons.  The  sight  of  his  blood,  welling  from 
the  treacherously-inflicted  wound,  made  him  indeed  the  son 
of  the  Yorkshire  gentleman's  heart.  The  spectacle  of  the 
sudden  event ;  of  the  tall,  straight  shape  prostrated  in  its 
pride  across  the  road  :  of  the  fine  southern  head  laid  low  in 
the  dust ;  of  that  youth  in  prime  flung  at  once  before  him 
pallid,  lifeless,  helpless — this  was  the  very  combination  of 
circumstances  to  win  for  the  victim  Mr.  Yorke's  liveliest 
interest. 

No  other  hand  was  there  to  raise — to  aid ;  no  other 
voice  to  question  kindly ;  no  other  brain  to  concert  measures  : 
he  had  to  do  it  all  himself.  This  utter  dependence  of  the 
speechless,  bleeding  youth  (as  a  youth  he  regarded  him)  on 
his  benevolence,  secured  that  benevolence  most  effectually. 
Well  did  Mr.  Yorke  like  to  have  power,  and  to  use  it :  he 
had  now  between  his  hands  power  over  a  fellow-creature's 
life  :  it  suited  him. 

No  less  perfectly  did  it  suit  his  saturnine  better-half : 
the  incident  was  quite  in  her  way,  and  to  her  taste.  Some 
women  would  have  been  terror-struck  to  see  a  gory  man 
brought  in  over  their  threshold,  and  laid  down  in  their  hall 
in  the  '  howe  of  the  night.'  There,  you  would  suppose,  was 
subject-matter  for  hysterics.  No  :  Mrs.  Yorke  went  into 
hysterics  when  Jessie  would  not  leave  the  garden  to  conae  to 


THE  SCHOOLBOY  AND  THE  WOOD-NYMPH  577 

her  knitting,  or  when  Martin  proposed  starting  for  Australia, 
with  a  view  to  realize  freedom,  and  escape  the  tyranny  of 
Matthew;  but  an  attempted  murder  near  her  door — a  half- 
murdered  man  in  her  best  bed— set  her  straight,  cheered  her 
spirits,  gave  her  cap  the  dash  of  a  turban. 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  just  the  woman  who,  while  rendering 
miserable  the  drudging  life  of  a  simple  maid-servant,  would 
nurse  like  a  heroine  an  hospital  full  of  plague  patients. 
She  almost  loved  Moore :  her  tough  heart  almost  yearned 
towards  him,  when  she  found  him  committed  to  her  charge — 
left  in  her  arms,  as  dependent  on  her  as  her  youngest-born 
in  the  cradle.  Had  she  seen  a  domestic,  or  one  of  her 
daughters,  give  him  a  draught  of  water,  or  smooth  his 
pillow,  she  would  have  boxed  the  intruder's  ears.  She 
chased  Jessie  and  Eose  from  the  upper  realm  of  tha 
house  :  she  forbade  the  housemaids  to  set  their  foot  in  it. 

Now,  if  the  accident  had  happened  at  the  Rectory  gates, 
and  old  Helstone  had  taken  in  the  martyr,  neither  Yorke 
nor  his  wife  would  have  pitied  him :  they  would  have  ad- 
judged him  right  served  for  his  tyranny  and  meddling : 
as  it  was,  he  became,  for  the  present,  the  apple  of  their 
eye. 

Strange !  Louis  Moore  was  permitted  to  come, — to  sit 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  lean  over  the  pillow, — to 
hold  his  brother's  hand,  and  press  his  pale  forehead  with  hig 
fraternal  lips :  and  Mrs.  Yorke  bore  it  well.  She  suffered 
him  to  stay  half  the  day  there ;  she  once  suffered  him  to  sit 
up  all  night  in  the  chamber ;  she  rose  herself  at  five  o'clock 
of  a  wet  November  morning,  and  with  her  own  hands  lit  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  made  the  brothers  a  breakfast,  and  served 
it  to  them  herself.  Majestically  arrayed  in  a  boundless 
flannel  wrapper,  a  shawl,  and  her  nightcap,  she  sat  and 
watched  them  eat,  as  complacently  as  a  hen  beholds  her 
chickens  feed.  Yet  she  gave  the  cook  warning  that  dtiy  for 
venturing  to  make  and  carry  up  to  Mr.  Moore  a  basin  of 
sago-gruel ;  and  the  housemaid  lost  her  favour  because,  when 
Mr.  Louis  was  departing,  she  brought  him  his  surtout  aired 


578  SHIBLEY 

from  the  kitchen,  and,  like  a  '  forward  piece,'  as  she  was 
helped  him  on  with  it,  and  accepted,  in  return,  a  smile,  a 
'  thank  you,  my  girl,'  and  a  shilling.  Two  ladies  called  one 
day,  pale  and  anxious,  and  begged  earnestly,  humbly,  to  be 
allowed  to  see  Mr.  Moore  one  instant :  Mrs.  Yorke  harder  ed 
her  heart,  and  sent  them  packing, — not  without  opprobrium. 

But  how  was  it  when  Hortense  Moore  came? — Not  so 
bad  as  might  have  been  expected  :  the  whole  family  of  the 
Moores  really  seemed  to  suit  Mrs.  Yorke  so  as  no  other 
family  had  ever  suited  her.  Hortense  and  she  possessed 
an  exhaustless  mutual  theme  of  conversation  in  the  corrupt 
propensities  of  servants.  Their  views  of  this  class  were 
similar  :  they  watched  them  with  the  same  suspicion,  and 
judged  them  with  the  same  severity.  Hortense,  too,  from 
the  very  first,  showed  no  manner  of  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Yorke's 
attentions  to  Robert:  she  let  her  keep  the  post  of  nurse 
with  little  interference ;  and,  for  herself,  found  ceaseless 
occupation  in  fidgeting  about  the  house,  holding  the  kitchen 
under  surveillance,  reporting  what  passed  there,  and,  in 
short,  making  herself  generally  useful.  Visitors,  they  both 
of  them  agreed  in  excluding  sedulously  from  the  sick-room. 
They  held  the  young  millowner  captive,  and  hardly  let  the 
air  breathe  or  the  sun  shine  on  him. 

Mr.  MacTurk,  the  surgeon  to  whom  Moore's  case  had 
been  committed,  pronounced  his  wound  of  a  dangerous,  but, 
he  trusted,  not  of  a  hopeless  character.  At  first  he  wished 
to  place  with  him  a  nurse  of  his  own  selection  ;  but  this 
neither  Mrs.  Yorke  nor  Hortense  would  hear  of :  they  pro- 
mised faithful  observance  of  directions.  He  was  left,  there- 
fore, for  the  present,  in  their  hands. 

Doubtless,  they  executed  the  trust  to  the  best  of  their 
ability  ;  but  something  got  wrong  :  the  bandages  were  dis- 
placed, or  tampered  with  ;  great  loss  of  blood  followed. 
MacTurk,  being  summoned,  came  with  steed  afoam.  He 
was  one  of  those  surgeons  whom  it  is  dangerous  to  vex  ; 
abrupt  in  his  best  moods  ;  in  his  worst,  savage.  On  seeing 
Moore's  state,  he  relieved  his  feelings  by  a  little  flowery 


THE  SCHOOLBOY  AND  THE  WOOD-NYMPH  579 

language,  with  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  strew  the  present 
page.  A  bouquet  or  two  of  the  choicest  blossoms  fell  on  the 
unperturbed  head  of  one  Mr.  Graves,  a  stony  young  assistant, 
he  usually  carried  about  with  him  ;  with  a  second  nosegay 
he  gifted  another  young  gentleman  in  his  train — an  interesting 
fac-simile  of  himself,  being,  indeed,  his  own  son  ;  but  the 
full  corbeille  of  blushing  bloom  fell  to  the  lot  of  meddling 
womankind,  en  masse. 

For  the  best  part  of  one  winter  night,  himself  and 
satellites  were  busied  about  Moore.  There,  at  his  bedside, 
shut  up  alone  with  him  in  his  chamber,  they  wrought  and 
wrangled  over  his  exhausted  frame.  They  three  were  on 
one  side  of  the  bed,  and  Death  on  the  other.  The  conflict 
was  sharp  :  it  lasted  till  day  broke,  when  the  balance  between 
the  belligerents  seemed  so  equal  that  both  parties  might  have 
claimed  the  victory. 

At  dawn,  Graves  and  young  MacTurk  were  left  in  charge 
of  the  patient,  while  the  senior  went  himself  in  search  of 
additional  strength,  and  secured  it  in  the  person  of  Mrs. 
Horsfall,  the  best  nurse  on  his  staff.  To  this  woman  he 
gave  Moore  in  charge,  with  the  sternest  injunctions  respect- 
ing the  responsibility  laid  on  her  shoulders.  She  took  this 
responsibility  stolidly,  as  she  did  also  the  easy-chair  at  the 
bed-head.  That  moment  she  began  her  reign. 

Mrs.  Horsfall  had  one  virtue, — orders  received  from 
MacTurk  she  obeyed  to  the  letter :  the  Ten  Commandments 
were  less  binding  in  her  eyes  than  her  surgeon's  dictum.  In 
other  respects,  she  was  no  woman,  but  a  dragon.  Hortense 
Moore  fell  effaced  before  her;  Mrs.  Yorke  withdrew— 
crushed  ;  yet  both  these  women  were  personages  of  some 
dignity  in  their  own  estimation,  and  of  some  bulk  in  the 
estimation  of  others.  Perfectly  cowed  by  the  breadth,  the 
height,  the  bone,  and  the  brawn  of  Mrs.  Horsfall,  they 
retreated  to  the  back -parlour.  She,  for  her  part,  sat  up- 
stairs when  she  liked,  and  down-stairs  when  she  preferred 
it :  she  took  her  dram  three  times  a-day,  and  her  pipe  of 
tobacco  four  times. 


680  SHIKLEY 

As  to  Moore,  no  one  now  ventured  to  inquire  about  him  : 
Mrs.  Horsfall  had  him  at  dry-nurse  :  it  was  she  wbo  was  to 
do  for  him  ;  and  the  general  conjecture  now  ran  that  she 
did  for  him  accordingly. 

Morning  and  evening  MacTurk  came  to  see  him  :  his 
case,  thus  complicated  by  a  new  mischance,  was  become  one 
of  interest  in  the  surgeon's  eyes  :  he  regarded  him  as  a 
damaged  piece  of  clock-work,  which  it  would  be  credit- 
able to  his  skill  to  set  a-going  again.  Graves  and  young 
MacTurk — Moore's  sole  other  visitors — contemplated  him 
in  the  light  in  which  they  were  wont  to  contemplate  the 
occupant  for  the  time  being  of  the  dissecting-room  at  Stilbro' 
Infirmary. 

Eobert  Moore  had  a  pleasant  time  of  it :  in  pain ;  in 
danger ;  too  weak  to  move  ;  almost  too  weak  to  speak  ;  a  sort 
of  giantess  his  keeper ;  the  three  surgeons  his  sole  society. 
Thus  he  lay  through  the  diminishing  days  and  lengthen- 
ing nights  of  the  whole  drear  month  of  November. 

In  the  commencement  of  his  captivity,  Moore  used  feebly 
to  resist  Mrs.  Horsfall :  he  hated  the  sight  of  her  rough  bulk, 
and  dreaded  the  contact  of  her  hard  hands  :  but  she  taught 
him  docility  in  a  trice.  She  made  no  account  whatever  of 
his  six  feet — -his  manly  thews  and  sinews :  she  turned  him 
in  his  bed  as  another  woman  would  have  turned  a  babe  in 
its  cradle.  When  he  was  good,  she  addressed  him  as  '  my 
dear '  and  '  honey ; '  and  when  he  was  bad,  she  sometimes 
shook  him.  Did  he  attempt  to  speak  when  MacTurk  was 
there,  she  lifted  her  hand  and  bade  him  '  hush  !  '  like  a  nurse 
checking  a  forward  child.  If  she  had  not  smoked — if  she 
had  not  taken  gin,  it  would  have  been  better,  he  thought ; 
but  she  did  both.  Once — in  her  absence — he  intimated  to 
MacTurk,  that  '  that  woman  was  a  dram-drinker.' 

'  Pooh  !  my  dear  sir ;  they  are  all  so,'  was  the  reply  he 
got  for  his  pains.  '  But  Horsfall  has  this  virtue/  added 
the  surgeon, — '  drunk  or  sober,  PU«  always  remembers  to 
obey  m" ' 


THE  SCHOOLBOY  AND  THE  WOOD-NYMPH  581 

At  length  the  latter  autumn  passed ;  its  fogs,  its  rains 
withdrew  from  England  their  mourning  and  their  tears  ; 
its  winds  swept  on  to  sigh  over  lands  far  away.  Behind 
November  came  deep  winter;  clearness,  stillness,  frost 
accompanying. 

A  calm  day  had  settled  into  a  crystalline  evening :  the 
world  wore  a  North  Pole  colouring :  all  its  lights  and  tints 
looked  like  the  '  reflets '  *  of  white,  or  violet,  or  pale  green 
gems.  The  hills  wore  a  lilac  blue ;  the  setting  sun  had 
purple  in  its  red  ;  the  sky  was  ice,  all  silvered  azure  ;  when 
the  stars  rose,  they  were  of  white  crystal — not  gold  ;  gray,  or 
cerulean,  or  faint  emerald  hues — cool,  pure,  and  transparent 
— tinged  the  mass  of  the  landscape. 

What  is  this  by  itself  in  a  wood  no  longer  green,  no 
longer  even  russet ;  a  wood,  neutral  tint — this  dark  blue 
moving  object  ?  Why,  it  is  a  schoolboy — a  Briarfield 
grammar-schoolboy — who  has  left  his  companions,  now 
trudging  home  by  the  high-road,  and  is  seeking  a  certain 
tree,  with  a  certain  mossy  mound  at  its  root — convenient  as 
a  seat.  Why  is  he  lingering  here  ? — the  air  is  cold,  and  the 
time  wears  late.  He  sits  down  :  what  is  he  thinking  about  ? 
Does  he  feel  the  chaste  charm  Nature  wears  to-night  ?  A 
pearl-white  moon  smiles  through  the  green  trees :  does  he 
care  for  her  smile  ? 

Impossible  to  say  ;  for  he  is  silent,  and  his  countenance 
does  not  speak  :  as  yet,  it  is  no  mirror  to  reflect  sensation, 
but  rather  a  mask  to  conceal  it.  This  boy  is  a  stripling  of 
fifteen — slight,  and  tall  of  his  years ;  in  his  face  there  is  as 
little  of  amenity  as  of  servility  :  his  eye  seems  prepared  to 
note  any  incipient  attempt  to  control  or  overreach  him,  and 
the  rest  of  his  features  indicate  faculties  alert  for  resistance. 
Wise  ushers  avoid  unnecessary  interference  with  that  lad. 
To  break  him  in  by  severity  would  be  a  useless  attempt ;  to 
win  him  by  flattery  would  be  an  effort  worse  than  useless. 

*  Find  me  an   English   word   as   good,   reader,   and   I   will  gladly 
dispense  with  the  French  word.     '  Reflections  '  won't  do. 


582  SHIRLEY 

He  is  best  let  alone.  Time  will  educate,  and  experience 
train  him. 

Professedly,  Martin  Yorke  (it  is  a  young  Yorke,  of 
course)  tramples  on  the  name  of  poetry  :  talk  sentiment  to 
him,  and  you  would  be  answered  by  sarcasm.  Here  he  is, 
wandering  alone,  waiting  duteously  on  Nature,  while  she 
unfolds  a  page  of  stern,  of  silent,  and  of  solemn  poetry, 
beneath  his  attentive  gaze. 

Being  seated,  he  takes  from  his  satchel  a  book — not 
the  Latin  grammar,  but  a  contraband  volume  of  Fairy 
tales  ;  there  will  be  light  enough  yet  for  an  hour  to  serve 
his  keen  young  vision :  besides,  the  moon  waits  on  him 
— her  beam,  dim  and  vague  as  yet,  fills  the  glade  where 
he  sits. 

He  reads :  he  is  led  into  a  solitary  mountain  region ; 
all  round  him  is  rude  and  desolate,  shapeless,  and  almost 
colourless.  He  hears  bells  tinkle  on  the  wind  ;  forth-riding 
from  the  formless  folds  of  the  mist,  dawns  on  him  the 
brightest  vision — a  green-robed  lady,  on  a  snow-white 
palfrey ;  he  sees  her  dress,  her  gems,  and  her  steed  ;  she 
arrests  him  with  some  mysterious  question  :  he  is  spell- 
bound, and  must  follow  her  into  Fairyland. 

A  second  legend  bears  him  to  the  sea-shore :  there 
tumbles  in  a  strong  tide,  boiling  at  the  base  of  dizzy  cliffs : 
it  rains  and  blows.  A  reef  of  rocks,  black  and  rough, 
stretches  far  into  the  sea  ;  all  along,  and  among,  and  above 
these  crags,  dash  and  flash,  sweep  and  leap,  swells,  wreaths, 
drifts  of  snowy  spray.  Some  lone  wanderer  is  out  on  these 
rocks,  treading,  with  cautious  step,  the  wet,  wild  sea-weed  ; 
glancing  down  into  hollows  where  the  brine  lies  fathoms 
deep  and  emerald-clear,  and  seeing  there  wilder  and  stranger, 
and  huger  vegetation,  than  is  found  on  land,  with  treasure 
of  shells — some  green,  some  purple,  some  pearly — clustered 
in  the  curls  of  the  snaky  plants.  He  hears  a  cry.  Looking 
up,  and  forward,  he  sees,  at  the  bleak  point  of  the  reef,  a 
tall,  pale  thing — shaped  like  man,  but  made  of  spray — 
transparent,  tremulous,  awful :  it  stands  not  alone  :  they  are 


SCHOOLBOY  AND  THE  WOOD-NYMPH  583 

all  human  figures  that  wanton  in  the  rocks — a  crowd  of 
foam-women-— a  band  of  white,  evanescent  Nereides. 

Hush! — shut  the  book:  hide  it  in  the  satchel: — Martin 
hears  a  tread.  He  listens  :  No — Yes :  Once  more,  the  dead 
leaves,  lightly  crushed,  rustle  on  the  wood-path.  Martin 
watches  :  the  trees  part,  and  a  woman  issues  forth. 

She  is  a  lady  dressed  in  dark  silk,  a  veil  covering  her 
face.  Martin  never  met  a  lady  in  this  wood  before — nor  any 
female,  save,  now  and  then,  a  village-girl  come  to  gather 
nuts.  To-night,  the  apparition  does  not  displease  him.  He 
observes,  as  she  approaches,  that  she  is  neither  old  nor 
plain,  but,  on  the  contrary,  very  youthful ;  and,  but  that  he 
now  recognizes  her  for  one  whom  he  has  often  wilfully 
pronounced  ugly,  he  would  deem  that  he  discovered  traits  of 
beauty  behind  the  thin  gauze  of  that  veil. 

She  passes  him,  and  says  nothing.  He  knew  she  would  : 
all  women  are  proud  monkeys — and  he  knows  no  more 
conceited  doll  than  that  Caroline  Helstone.  The  thought  is 
hardly  hatched  in  his  mind,  when  the  lady  retraces  those 
two  steps  she  had  got  beyond  him,  and,  raising  her  veil, 
reposes  her  glance  on  his  face,  while  she  softly  asks,  '  Are 
you  one  of  Mr.  Yorke's  sons  ?  ' 

No  human  evidence  would  ever  have  been  able  to  per- 
suade Martin  Yorke  that  he  blushed  when  thus  addressed ; 
yet  blush  he  did,  to  the  ears. 

'  I  am,'  he  said,  bluntly ;  and  encouraged  himself  to 
wonder,  superciliously,  what  would  come  next. 

'  You  are  Martin,  I  think  ? '  was  the  observation  that 
followed. 

It  could  not  have  been  more  felicitous :  it  was  a  simple 
sentence — very  artlessly,  a  little  timidly  pronounced  ;  but  it 
chimed  in  harmony  to  the  youth's  nature :  it  stilled  him  like 
a  note  of  music. 

Martin  had  a  keen  sense  of  his  personality :  he  felt  it 
right  and  sensible  that  the  girl  should  discriminate  him  from 
his  brothers.  Like  his  father,  he  hated  ceremony  :  it  was 
acceptable  to  hear  a  lady  address  him  aa  '  Martin,'  and  not 


584  SHIBLEY 

Mr.  Martin,  or  Master  Martin,  which  form  would  have  lost 
her  his  good  graces  for  ever.  Worse,  if  possible,  than 
ceremony,  was  the  other  extreme  of  slipshod  familiarity  :  the 
slight  tone  of  bashfulness — the  scarcely  perceptible  hesita- 
tion— was  considered  perfectly  in  place. 

'  I  am  Martin,'  he  said. 

'  Are  your  father  and  mother  well  ?  ' — (it  was  lucky  she 
did  not  say  papa  and  mamma :  that  would  have  undone  all,) 
— '  and  Kose  and  Jessie  ? ' 

'  I  suppose  so.' 

'  My  cousin  Hortense  is  still  at  Briarmains  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  yes  ! ' 

Martin  gave  a  comic  half-smile  and  demi-groan  :  the 
half-smile  was  responded  to  by  the  lady,  who  could  guess  in 
what  sort  of  odour  Hortense  was  likely  to  be  held  by  the 
young  Yorkes. 

1  Does  your  mother  like  her  ? ' 

'They  suit  so  well  about  the  servants,  they  can't  help 
liking  each  other  !  ' 

I  It  is  cold  to-night.' 

'  Why  are  you  out  so  late  ?' 

'  I  lost  my  way  in  this  wood.' 

Now,  indeed,  Martin  allowed  himself  a  refreshing  laugh 
of  scorn. 

'  Lost  your  way  in  the  mighty  forest  of  Briarmains ! 
You  deserve  never  more  to  find  it.' 

'  I  never  was  here  before,  and  I  believe  I  am  trespassing 
now  :  you  might  inform  against  me  if  you  chose,  Martin,  and 
have  me  fined :  it  is  your  father's  wood.' 

I 1  should  think  I  knew  that ;  but  since  you  are  so  simple 
as  to  lose  your  way,  I  will  guide  you  out.' 

'  You  need  not  :  I  have  got  into  the  track  now:  I  shall 
be  right.  Martin  '  (a  little  quickly),  '  how  is  Mr.  Moore  ? ' 

Martin  had  heard  certain  rumours  :  it  struck  him  that  it 
might  be  amusing  to  make  an  experiment. 

'Going  to  die.  Nothing  can  save  him.  All  hope  flung 
overboard ! ' 


THE  SCHOOLBOY  AND  THE  WOOD-NYMPH  585 

She  put  her  veil  aside.  She  looked  into  his  eyes,  and 
said,  '  To  die  ! ' 

'  To  die.  All  along  of  the  women,  my  mother  and  the 
rest :  they  did  something  about  his  bandages  that  finished 
everything :  he  would  have  got  better  but  for  them,  I  am 
sure  they  should  be  arrested,  cribbed,  tried,  and  brought  in 
for  Botany  Bay,  at  the  very  least.' 

The  questioner,  perhaps,  did  not  hear  this  judgment: 
she  stood  motionless.  In  two  minutes,  without  another 
word,  she  moved  forwards  :  no  good-night,  no  further  inquiry. 
This  was  not  amusing,  nor  what  Martin  had  calculated  on  : 
he  expected  something  dramatic  and  demonstrative  :  it  was 
hardly  worth  while  to  frighten  the  girl,  if  she  would  not 
entertain  him  in  return.  He  called,  '  Miss  Helstone  ! ' 

She  did  not  hear  or  turn.  He  hastened  after  and  over- 
took her. 

4  Come.     Are  you  uneasy  about  what  I  said  ? ' 

'  You  know  nothing  about  death,  Martin :  you  are  too 
young  for  me  to  talk  to  concerning  such  a  thing.' 

'  Did  you  believe  me  ?  It's  all  flummery !  Moore  eats 
like  three  men :  they  are  always  making  sago  or  tapioca,  or 
something  good  for  him  :  I  never  go  into  the  kitchen,  but 
there  is  a  saucepan  on  the  fire,  cooking  him  some  dainty. 
I  think  I  will  play  the  old  soldier,  and  be  fed  on  the  fat  of 
the  land  like  him.' 

'  Martin !  Martin ! '  here  her  voice  trembled,  and  she 
stopped.  '  It  is  exceedingly  wrong  of  you,  Martin  :  you  have 
almost  killed  me.' 

Again  she  stopped :  she  leaned  against  a  tree,  trembling, 
shuddering,  and  as  pale  as  death. 

Martin  contemplated  her  with  inexpressible  curiosity.  In 
one  sense  it  was,  as  he  would  have  expressed  it,  '  nuts '  to 
him  to  see  this  :  it  told  him  so  much,  and  he  was  beginning 
to  have  a  great  relish  for  discovering  secrets ;  in  another 
sense,  it  reminded  him  of  what  he  had  once  felt  when  he 
had  heard  a  blackbird  lamenting  for  her  nestlings,  which 
Matthew  had  crushed  with  a  stone,  and  that  was  not  a 


586  SHIKLEY 

pleasant  feeling.  Unable  to  find  anything  very  appropriate 
to  say,  in  order  to  comfort  her,  he  began  to  cast  about  in  his 
mind  what  he  could  do :  he  smiled  :  the  lad's  smile  gave 
wondrous  transparency  to  his  physiognomy. 

'  Eureka  ! '  he  cried.  '  I'll  set  all  straight  by-and-by. 
You  are  better  now,  Miss  Caroline  :  walk  forward,'  he 
urged. 

Not  reflecting  that  it  would  be  more  difficult  for  Miss 
Helstone  than  for  himself  to  climb  a  wall  or  penetrate  a 
hedge,  he  piloted  her  by  a  short  cut  which  led  to  no  gate. 
The  consequence  was  he  had  to  help  her  over  some  for- 
midable obstacles,  and,  while  he  railed  at  her  for  helpless- 
ness, he  perfectly  liked  to  feel  himself  of  use. 

'  Martin,  before  we  separate,  assure  me  seriously,  and  on 
your  word  of"  honour,  that  Mr.  Moore  is  better.' 

'  How  very  much  you  think  of  that  Moore  ! ' 

'  No— but — many  of  his  friends  may  ask  me,  and  I  wish 
to  be  able  to  give  an  authentic  answer.' 

'  You  may  tell  them  he  is  well  enough,  only  idle  :  you 
may  tell  them  that  he  takes  mutton-chops  for  dinner,  and 
the  best  of  arrowroot  for  supper.  I  intercepted  a  basin 
myself  one  night  on  its  way  up-stairs,  and  ate  half  of  it.' 

'  And  who  waits  on  him,  Martin  ?     Who  nurses  him  ?  ' 

'  Nurses  him  ? — the  great  baby  !  Why,  a  woman  as  round 
and  big  as  our  largest  water-butt — a  rough,  hard-favoured 
old  girl.  I  make  no  doubt  she  leads  him  a  rich  life  :  nobody 
else  is  let  near  him  :  he  is  chiefly  in  the  dark.  It  is  my 
belief  she  knocks  him  about  terribly  in  that  chamber.  I 
listen  at  the  wall  sometimes  when  I  am  in  bed,  and  I  think 
I  hear  her  thumping  him.  You  should  see  her  fist :  she 
could  hold  half  a  dozen  hands  like  yours  in  her  one  palm. 
After  all,  notwithstanding  the  chops  and  jellies  he  gets,  I 
would  not  be  in  his  shoes.  In  fact,  it  is  my  private  opinion 
that  she  eats  most  of  what  goes  up  on  the  tray  to  Mr.  Moore. 
I  wish  she  may  not  be  starving  him.' 

Profound  silence  and  meditation  on  Caroline's  part,  and 
a  sly  watchfulness  on  Martin's. 


THE  SCHOOLBOY  AND  THE  WOOD-NYMPH  687 

'You  never  see  him,  I  suppose,  Martin?' 

1 1?    No :  I  don't  care  to  see  him,  for  my  own  part.' 

Silence  again. 

'  Did  not  you  come  to  our  house  once  with  Mrs.  Pryor, 
about  five  weeks  since,  to  ask  after  him  ? '  again  inquired 
Martin. 

'  Yes.' 

'  I  daresay  you  wished  to  be  shown  up-stairs  ?  ' 

1  We  did  wish  it :  we  entreated  it ;  but  your  mother 
declined.' 

'  Ay !  she  declined.  I  heard  it  all :  she  treated  you  as  it 
is  her  pleasure  to  treat  visitors  now  and  then  :  she  behaved 
to  you  rudely  and  harshly.' 

'  She  was  not  kind ;  for,  you  know,  Martin,  we  are 
relations,  and  it  is  natural  we  should  take  an  interest  in  Mr. 
Moore.  But  here  we  must  part :  we  are  at  your  father's 
gate.' 

'  Very  well — what  of  that  ?  I  shall  walk  home  with 
you.' 

'  They  will  miss  you,  and  wonder  where  you  are.' 

'  Let  them I  can  take  care  of  myself,  I  suppose.' 

Martin  knew  that  he  had  already  incurred  the  penalty  of 
a  lecture,  and  dry  bread  for  his  tea.  No  matter,  the  evening 
had  furnished  him  with  an  adventure :  it  was  beHer  than 
muffins  and  toast. 

He  walked  home  with  Caroline.  On  the  way  he  promised 
to  see  Mr.  Moore,  in  spite  of  the  dragon  who  guarded  his 
chamber,  and  appointed  an  hour  on  the  next  day,  when 
Caroline  was  to  come  to  Briarmains  Wood  and  get  tidings  of 
him  :  he  would  meet  her  at  a  certain  tree.  The  scheme  led 
to  nothing  :  still  he  liked  it. 

Having  reached  home,  the  dry  bread  and  the  lecture  were 
duly  administered  to  him,  and  he  was  dismissed  to  bed  at  an 
early  hour.  He  accepted  his  punishment  with  the  toughest 
stoicism. 

Ere  ascending  to  his  chamber  he  paid  a  secret  visit  to 
the  dining-room,  a  still,  cold,  stately  apartment,  seldom 


588  SHIRLEY 

used  ;  for  the  family  customarily  dined  in  the  back-parlour. 
He  stood  before  the  mantelpiece,  and  lifted  his  candle  to 
two  pictures  hung  above — female  heads  :  one,  a  type  of  se- 
rene beauty — happy  and  innocent ;  the  other,  more  lovely — 
but  forlorn  and  desperate. 

'  She  looked  like  that,'  he  said,  gazing  on  the  latter 
sketch,  '  when  she  sobbed,  turned  white,  and  leaned  against 
the  tree.  I  suppose,'  he  pursued,  when  he  was  in  his  room, 
and  seated  on  the  edge  of  his  pallet-bed — '  I  suppose  she  is, 
what  they  call,  "  in  love  ;  "  yes,  in  love  with  that  long  thing 
in  the  next  chamber.  Whisht !  is  that  Horsfall  clattering 
him  ?  I  wonder  he  does  not  yell  out.  It  really  sounds  as 
if  she  had  fallen  on  him  tooth  and  nail ;  but  I  suppose  she 
is  making  the  bed.  I  saw  her  at  it  once — she  hit  into  the 
mattresses  as  if  she  was  boxing.  It  is  queer,  Zillah  (they 
call  her  Zillah) — Zillah  Horsfall  is  a  woman,  and  Caroline 
Helstone  is  a  woman  :  they  are  two  individuals  of  the  same 
species — not  much  alike  though.  Is  she  a  pretty  girl,  that 
Caroline  ?  I  suspect  she  is — very  nice  to  look  at — something 
so  clear  in  her  face — so  soft  in  her  eyes.  I  approve  of  her 
looking  at  me ;  it  does  me  good.  She  has  long  eyelashes  : 
their  shadow  seems  to  rest  where  she  gazes,  and  to  instil 
peace  and  thought.  If  she  behaves  well,  and  continues  to 
suit  me,  as  she  has  suited  me  to-day,  I  may  do  her  a  good 
turn.  I  rather  relish  the  notion  of  circumventing  my  mother 
and  that  ogress,  old  Horsfall.  Not  that  I  like  humouring 
Moore ;  but  whatever  I  do  I'll  be  paid  for,  and  in  coin  of 
my  own  choosing  :  I  know  what  reward  I  will  claim — one 
displeasing  to  Moore,  and  agreeable  to  myself.' 

He  turned  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
MARTIN'S  TACTICS 

IT  was  necessary  to  the  arrangement  of  Martin's  plan,  that 
he  should  stay  at  home  that  day.  Accordingly,  he  found  no 
appetite  for  breakfast ;  and,  just  about  school-time,  took  a 
severe  pain  about  his  heart,  which  rendered  it  advisable 
that,  instead  of  setting  out  to  the  grammar-school  with 
Mark,  he  should  succeed  to  his  father's  arm-chair  by  the 
fireside,  and  also  to  his  morning-paper.  This  point  being 
satisfactorily  settled,  and  Mark  being  gone  to  Mr.  Sum- 
ner's  class,  and  Matthew  and  Mr.  Yorke  withdrawn  to  the 
counting-house,  three  other  exploits,  nay  four,  remained  to 
be  achieved. 

The  first  of  these  was  to  realize  the  breakfast  he  had  not 
yet  tasted,  and  with  which  his  appetite  of  fifteen  could  ill 
afford  to  dispense  ;  the  second,  third,  fourth,  to  get  hia 
mother,  Miss  Moore,  and  Mrs.  Horsfall  successively,  out 
of  the  way  before  four  o'clock  that  afternoon. 

The  first  was,  for  the  present,  the  most  pressing,  since 
the  work  before  him  demanded  an  amount  of  energy  which 
the  present  empty  condition  of  his  youthful  stomach  did 
not  seem  likely  to  supply. 

Martin  knew  the  way  to  the  larder ;  and  knowing  this 
way,  he  took  it.  T*he  servants  were  in  the  kitchen,  break- 
fasting solemnly  with  closed  doors ;  his  mother  and  Miss 
Moore  were  airing  themselves  on  the  lawn,  and  discussing 
the  closed  doors  aforesaid :  Martin,  safe  in  the  larder,  made 
fastidious  selection  from  its  stores.  His  breakfast  had  been 
delayed— he  was  determined  it  should  be  recherche1  :  it 


590  SHIRLEY 

appeared  to  liim  that  a  variety  on  his  usual  somewhat  insipid 
fare  of  bread-and-milk  was  both  desirable  and  advisable : 
the  savoury  and  the  salutary  he  thought  might  be  combined. 
There  was  store  of  rosy  apples  laid  in  straw  upon  a  shelf ; 
he  picked  out  three.  There  was  pastry  upon  a  dish  ;  he 
selected  an  apricot-puff  and  a  damson  tart.  On  the  plain 
household  bread  his  eye  did  not  dwell ;  but  he  surveyed 
with  favour  some  currant  tea-cakes,  and  condescended  to 
make  choice  of  one.  Thanks  to  his  clasp-knife,  he  was  able 
to  appropriate  a  wing  of  fowl  and  a  slice  of  ham  ;  a  cantlet 
of  cold  custard-pudding  he  thought  would  harmonize  with 
these  articles ;  and  having  made  this  final  addition  to  his 
booty,  he  at  length  sallied  forth  into  the  hall. 

He  was  already  half  way  across — three  steps  more  would 
have  anchored  him  in  the  harbour  of  the  back-parlour 
— when  the  front  door  opened,  and  there  stood  Matthew. 
Better  far  had  it  been  the  Old  Gentleman,  in  full  equipage 
of  horns,  hoofs,  and  tail. 

Matthew,  sceptic  and  scoffer,  had  already  failed  to  sub- 
scribe a  prompt  belief  in  that  pain  about  the  heart :  he 
had  muttered  some  words,  amongst  which  the  phrase 
'shamming  Abraham'  had  been  very  distinctly  audible; 
and  the  succession  to  the  arm-chair  and  newspaper  had 
appeared  to  affect  him  with  mental  spasms  :  the  spectacle 
now  before  him,  the  apples,  the  tarts,  the  tea-cake,  the 
fowl,  ham  and  pudding,  offered  evidence  but  too  well 
calculated  to  inflate  his  opinion  of  his  own  sagacity. 

Martin  paused  '  interdit '  one  minute,  one  instant ;  the 
next  he  knew  his  ground,  and  pronounced  all  well.  With 
the  true  perspicacity  '  des  ames  elites,'  he  at  once  saw  how 
this — at  first  sight  untoward  event — might  be  turned  to 
excellent  account :  he  saw  how  it  might  be  so  handled  as  to 
secure  the  accomplishment  of  his  second  task,  viz.  the 
disposal  of  his  mother.  He  knew  that  a  collision  between 
him  and  Matthew  always  suggested  to  Mrs.  Yorke  the 
propriety  of  a  fit  of  hysterics  ;  he  further  knew  that,  on  the 
principle  of  calm  succeeding  to  storm,  after  a  morning  of 


MAETIN'S  TACTICS  591 

hysterics,  his  mother  was  sure  to  indulge  in  an  afternoon  of 
bed.  This  would  accommodate  him  perfectly. 

The  collision  duly  took  place  in  the  hall.  A  dry  laugh, 
an  insulting  sneer,  a  contemptuous  taunt,  met  by  a  noncha- 
lant but  most  cutting  reply,  were  the  signals.  They  rushed 
at  it.  Martin,  who  usually  made  little  noise  on  these  occa- 
sions, made  a  great  deal  now.  In  flew  the  servants,  Mrs. 
Yorke,  Miss  Moore  :  no  female  hand  could  separate  them : 
Mr.  Yorke  was  summoned. 

'  Sons,'  said  he,  '  one  of  you  must  leave  my  roof  if  this 
occurs  again  :  I  will  have  no  Cain  and  Abel  strife  here.' 

Martin  now  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  off :  he  had  been 
hurt,  he  was  the  youngest  and  slightest :  he  was  quite  cool, 
in  no  passion :  he  even  smiled,  content  that  the  most 
difficult  part  of  the  labour  he  had  set  himself  was  over. 

Once  he  seemed  to  flag  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 

'  It  is  not  worth  while  to  bother  myself  for  that  Caroline,' 
he  remarked.  But,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards,  he  was 
again  in  the  dining-room,  looking  at  the  head  with  dis- 
hevelled tresses  and  eyes  turbid  with  despair. 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  '  I  made  her  sob,  shudder,  almost  faint : 
I'll  see  her  smile  before  I've  done  with  her :  besides,  I 
want  to  outwit  all  these  womenites.' 

Directly  after  dinner,  Mrs.  Yorke  fulfilled  her  son's 
calculation,  by  withdrawing  to  her  chamber.  Now  for 
Hortense. 

That  lady  was  just  comfortably  settled  to  stocking- 
mending  in  the  back-parlour,  when  Martin — laying  down  a 
book  which,  stretched  on  the  sofa  (he  was  still  indisposed, 
according  to  his  own  account),  he  had  been  perusing  in 
all  the  voluptuous  case  of  a  yet  callow  pacha — lazily 
introduced  some  discourse  about  Sarah,  the  maid  at  the 
Hollow.  In  the  course  of  much  verbal  meandering,  he 
insinuated  information  that  this  damsel  was  said  to  have 
three  suitors,  Frederic  Murgatroyd,  Jeremiah  Pighills,  and 
Jobn-of-Mally's-of-Hannah's-of-Dch's  ;  and  that  Miss  Mann 
had  affirmed  she  knew  for  a  fact,  that,  now  the  girl  was  left 


592  SHIELEY 

in  sole  charge  of  the  cottage,  she  often  had  her  swains 
to  meals,  and  entertained  them  with  the  best  the  house 
afforded. 

It  needed  no  more.  Hortense  could  not  have  lived 
another  hour  without  betaking  herself  to  the  scene  of  these 
nefarious  transactions,  and  inspecting  the  state  of  matters  in 
person.  Mrs.  Horsfall  remained. 

Martin,  master  of  the  field  now,  extracted  from  his 
mother's  work-basket  a  bunch  of  keys ;  with  these  he 
opened  the  sideboard  cupboard,  produced  thence  a  black 
bottle  and  a  small  glass,  placed  them  on  the  table,  nimbly 
mounted  the  stairs,  made  for  Mr.  Moore's  door,  tapped,  the 
nurse  opened. 

1  If  you  please,  ma'am,  you  are  invited  to  step  into  the 
back-parlour,  and  take  some  refreshment :  you  will  not  be 
disturbed  :  the  family  are  out.' 

He  watched  her  down  ;  he  watched  her  in  ;  himself  shut 
the  door  :  he  knew  she  was  safe. 

The  hard  work  was  done;  now  for  the  pleasure.  He 
snatched  his  cap,  and  away  for  the  wood. 

It  was  yet  but  half-past  three  ;  it  had  been  a  fine  morn- 
ing, but  the  sky  looked  dark  now :  it  was  beginning  to 
snow ;  the  wind  blew  cold ;  the  wood  looked  dismal ;  the 
old  tree  grim.  Yet  Martin  approved  the  shadow  on  his 
path :  he  found  a  charm  in  the  spectral  aspect  of  the 
doddered  oak. 

He  had  to  wait :  to  and  fro  he  walked,  while  the  flakes 
fell  faster ;  and  the  wind,  which  at  first  had  but  moaned, 
pitifully  howled. 

'  She  is  long  in  coming,'  he  muttered,  as  he  glanced 
along  the  narrow  track.  '  I  wonder,'  he  subjoined,  '  what 
I  wish  to  see  her  so  much  for  ?  She  is  not  coming  for  me. 
But  I  have  power  over  her,  and  I  want  her  to  come  that  I 
may  use  that  power.' 

H  '.  continued  his  walk. 

'  Now,'  he  resumed,  '  when  a  further  period  had  elapsed, 
'  if  she  fails  to  come,  I  shall  hate  and  scorn  her.' 


MARTIN'S  TACTICS  593 

It  struck  four  :  he  heard  the  church-clock  far  away.  A 
step  so  quick,  so  light,  that,  but  for  the  rustling  of  leaves,  it 
would  scarcely  have  sounded  on  the  wood-walk,  checked 
his  impatience.  The  wind  blew  fiercely  now,  and  the 
thickened  white  storm  waxed  bewildering ;  but  on  she 
came,  and  not  dismayed. 

'  Well,  Martin,'  she  said,  eagerly,  '  how  is  he  ?  ' 

'  It  is  queer  how  she  thinks  of  him,'  reflected  Martin  : 
:  the  blinding  snow  and  bitter  cold  are  nothing  to  her,  I 
believe  :  yet  she  is  but  a  "  chitty-faced  creature,"  as  my 
mother  would  say.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  wish  I  had 
a  cloak  to  wrap  her  in.' 

Thus  meditating  to  himself,  he  neglected  to  answer  Miss 
Helstone. 

'  You  have  seen  him  ?  ' 

'No.' 

1  Oh  !     You  promised  you  would.' 

I  mean  to  do  better  by  you  than  that.  Didn't  I  say,  I 
don't  care  to  see  him  ?  ' 

'  But  now  it  will  be  so  long  before  I  get  to  know  any- 
thing certain  about  him,  and  I  am  sick  of  waiting.  Martin, 
do  see  him,  and  give  him  Caroline  Helstone's  regards,  and 
say  she  wished  to  know  how  he  was,  and  if  anything  could 
be  done  for  his  comfort.' 

'  I  won't.' 

'  You  are  changed  :  you  were  so  friendly  last  night.' 

'  Come :  we  must  not  stand  in  this  wood ;  it  is  too 
cold.' 

'  But,  before  I  go,  promise  me  to  come  again  to-morrow 
with  news.' 

'  No  such  thing ;  I  am  much  too  delicate  to  make  and 
keep  such  appointments  in  the  winter  season  :  if  you  knew 
what  a  pain  I  had  in  my  chest  this  morning,  and  how  I 
went  without  breakfast,  and  was  knocked  down  besides, 
you'd  feel  the  impropriety  of  bringing  me  here  in  thp,  snow. 
Come,  I  say.' 

'  Are  you  really  delicate,  Martin  ?  ' 


594  SHIRLEY 

'Don't  I  look  so?' 

1  You  have  rosy  cheeks.' 

'  That's  hectic.     Will  you  come — or  you  won't  ? ' 

'  Where  ? ' 

1  With  me.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  bring  a  cloak  :  I  would 
have  made  you  cozy.' 

'  You  are  going  home  :  my  nearest  road  lies  in  the 
opposite  direction.' 

'  Put  your  arm  through  mine.     I'll  take  care  of  you.' 

'  But,  the  wall — the  hedge — it  is  such  hard  work  climbing, 
and  you  are  too  slender  and  young  to  help  me  without 
hurting  yourself.' 

'  You  shall  go  through  the  gate.' 

'  But ' 

'  But !— but !     Will  you  trust  me  or  not  ?  ' 

She  looked  into  his  face. 

'  I  think  I  will.  Anything  rather  than  return  as  anxious 
as  I  came.' 

'  I  can't  answer  for  that.  This,  however,  I  promise  you  ; 
be  ruled  by  me,  and  you  shall  see  Moore  yourself.' 

'  See  him  myself  ?  ' 

'  Yourself.' 

'But,  dear  Martin,  does  he  know?' 

'  Ah !  I'm  dear  now.     No  :  he  doesn't  know.' 

'  And  your  mother  and  the  others  ?  ' 

'  All  is  right.' 

Caroline  fell  into  a  long  silent  fit  of  musing,  but  still 
she  walked  on  with  her  guide  :  they  came  in  sight  of 
Briarmains. 

'  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  ?  '  he  asked. 

She  was  silent. 

'  Decide.  We  are  just  on  the  spot.  I  won't  see  him — 
that  I  tell  you — except  to  announce  your  arrival.' 

'  Martin,  you  are  a  strange  boy,  and  this  is  a  strange 
step  ;  but  all  I  feel  is  and  has  been,  for  a  long  time,  strange 
1  will  see  him.' 

'  Having  said  that,  you  will  neither  hesitate  nor  retract.' 


MARTIN'S  TACTICS  595 

'No.' 

'  Here  we  are,  then.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  passing  the 
parlour  window :  no  one  will  see  you.  My  father  and 
Matthew  are  at  the  mill ;  Mark  is  at  school ;  the  servants 
are  in  the  back-kitchen ;  Miss  Moore  is  at  the  cottage  ;  my 
mother  in  her  bed  ;  and  Mrs.  Horsfall  in  Paradise.  Observe 
— I  need  not  ring :  I  open  the  door ;  the  hall  is  empty  ; 
the  staircase  quiet ;  so  is  the  gallery  :  the  whole  house  and 
all  its  inhabitants  are  under  a  spell,  which  I  will  not  break 
till  you  are  gone.' 

'  Martin,  I  trust  you.' 

'  You  never  said  a  better  word.  Let  me  take  your 
shawl :  I  will  shake  off  the  snow  and  dry  it  for  you.  You 
are  cold  and  wet :  never  mind ;  there  is  a  fire  upstairs. 
Are  you  ready  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Follow  me.' 

He  left  his  shoes  on  the  mat ;  mounted  the  stair 
unshod  ;  Caroline  stole  after,  with  noiseless  step  :  there  was 
a  gallery,  and  there  was  a  passage  ;  at  the  end  of  that  passage 
Martin  paused  before  a  door  and  tapped :  he  had  to  tap 
twice — thrice  :  a  voice,  known  to  one  listener,  at  last  said, — 
'  Come  in.' 

The  boy  entered  briskly. 

'  Mr.  Moore,  a  lady  called  to  inquire  after  you  :  none  of 
the  women  were  about :  it  is  washing-day,  and  the  maids 
are  over  the  crown  of  the  head  in  soap-suds  in  the  back- 
kitchen  :  so  I  asked  her  to  step  up.1 

'  Up  here,  sir?  ' 

'Up  here,  sir;  but  if  you  object,  she  shall  go  down 
again.' 

'  Is  this  a  place,  or  am  I  a  person  to  bring  a  lady  to,  you 
absurd  lad  ?  ' 

'  No  :  so  I'll  take  her  off.' 

1  Martin,  you  will  stay  here.     Who  is  she  ? ' 

'  Your  grandmother  from  that  chateau  on  the  Scheldt 
Miss  Moore  talks  about,' 


596  SHIRLEY 

4  Martin,'  said  the  softest  whisper  at  the  door,  '  don't  be 
foolish.' 

'  Is  she  there  ? '  inquired  Moore,  hastily.  He  had 
caught  an  imperfect  sound. 

'  She  is  there,  fit  to  faint :  she  is  standing  on  the  mat, 
shocked  at  your  want  of  filial  affection.' 

4  Martin,  you  are  an  evil  cross  between  an  imp  and  a 
page.  What  is  she  like  ? ' 

'  More  like  me  than  you ;  for  she  is  young  and  beautiful.' 

'  You  are  to  show  her  forward.     Do  you  hear  ? ' 

'  Come,  Miss  Caroline.' 

4  Miss  Caroline  ! '  repeated  Moore. 

And  when  Miss  Caroline  entered,  she  was  encountered 
in  the  middle  of  the  chamber  by  a  tall,  thin,  wasted  figure» 
who  took  both  her  hands. 

4 1  give  you  a  quarter-of-an-hour/  said  Martin,  as  he 
withdrew  :  4  no  more.  Say  what  you  have  to  say  in  that 
time :  till  it  is  past,  I  will  wait  in  the  gallery  :  nothing  shall 
approach :  I'll  see  you  safe  away.  Should  you  persist  in 
staying  longer,  I  leave  you  to  your  fate.' 

He  shut  the  door.  In  the  gallery  he  was  as  elate  as  a 
king :  he  had  never  been  engaged  in  an  adventure  he  liked 
so  well ;  for  no  adventure  had  ever  invested  him  with  so 
much  importance,  or  inspired  him  with  so  much  interest. 

'  You  are  come  at  last,'  said  the  meagre  man,  gazing  on 
his  visitress  with  hollow  eyes. 

'  Did  you  expect  me  before  ? ' 

'  For  a  month — near  two  months,  we  have  been  very  near ; 
and  I  have  been  in  sad  pain,  and  danger,  and  misery,  Gary.' 

'  I  could  not  come.' 

'  Couldn't  you  ?  But  the  Rectory  and  Briarmains  are 
very  near  :  not  two  miles  apart.' 

There  was  pain — there  was  pleasure  in  the  girl's  face  as 
she  listened  to  these  implied  reproaches :  it  was  sweet — it 
was  bitter  to  defend  herself. 

'  When  I  say  I  could  not  come,  I  mean  I  could  not  see 
you,  for  I  came  with  mamma  the  very  day  we  heard  what 


MARTIN'S  TACTICS  597 

had  happened.  Mr.  MacTurk  then  told  us  it  was  impossible 
to  admit  any  stranger.' 

1  But  afterwards — every  fine  afternoon  these  many  weeks 
past  I  have  waited  and  listened.  Something  here,  Gary ' 
(laying  his  hand  on  his  breast),  '  told  me  it  was  impossible 
but  that  you  should  think  of  me.  Not  that  I  merit  thought ; 
but  we  are  old  acquaintance  :  we  are  cousins.' 

'  I  came  again,  Robert :  mamma  and  I  came  again.' 

'  Did  you  ?  Come,  that  is  worth  hearing :  since  you 
came  again,  we  will  sit  down  and  talk  about  it. 

They  sat  down.  Caroline  drew  her  chair  up  to  his. 
The  air  was  now  dark  with  snow  :  an  Iceland  blast  was 
driving  it  wildly.  This  pair  neither  heard  the  long  '  wuther- 
ing '  rush,  nor  saw  the  white  burden  it  drifted  :  each  seemed 
conscious  but  of  one  thing — the  presence  of  the  other. 

'  And  so  mamma  and  you  came  again  ?  ' 

'  And  Mrs.  Yorke  did  treat  us  strangely.  We  asked  to 
see  you.  "  No,"  said  she ;  "  not  in  my  house.  I  am  a*; 
present  responsible  for  his  life  :  it  shall  not  be  forfeited  for 
half-an-hour's  idle  gossip."  But  I  must  not  tell  you  all  she 
said :  it  was  very  disagreeable.  However,  we  came  yet 
again — mamma,  Miss  Keeldar,  and  I.  This  time  we  thought 
we  should  conquer,  as  we  were  three  against  one,  and 
Shirley  was  on  our  side.  But  Mrs.  Yorke  opened  such  a 
battery.' 

Moore  smiled. 

'  What  did  she  say  ?  ' 

'  Things  that  astonished  us.  Shirley  laughed  at  last ;  I 
cried ;  mamma  was  seriously  annoyed  :  we  were  all  three 
driven  from  the  field.  Since  that  time  I  have  only  walked 
once  a  day  past  the  house,  just  for  the  satisfaction  of  looking 
up  at  your  window,  which  I  could  distinguish  by  the  drawn 
curtains.  I  really  dared  not  come  in.' 

'  I  have  wished  for  you,  Caroline.' 

'  I  did  not  know  that.  I  never  dreamt  one  instant  that 
you  thought  of  me.  If  I  had  but  most  distantly  imagined 
such  a  possibility — 


598  SHIRLEY 

'  Mrs.  Yorke  would  still  have  beaten  you.' 

'She  would  not.  Stratagem  should  have  been  tried,  if 
persuasion  failed.  I  would  have  come  to  the  kitchen  door ; 
the  servant  should  have  let  me  in  ;  and  I  would  have  walked 
straight  up-stairs.  In  fact,  it  was  far  more  the  fear  of 
intrusion— the  fear  of  yourself,  that  baffled  me,  than  the  fear 
of  Mrs.  Ycrke.' 

1  Only  last  night,  I  despaired  of  ever  seeing  you  again. 
Weakness  has  wrought  terrible  depression  in  me — terrible 
depression.' 

'  And  you  sit  alone  ?  ' 

'  Worse  than  alone.' 

'But  you  must  be  getting  better,  since  you  can  leave 
your  bed  ? ' 

'  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  live  :  I  see  nothing  for  it,  after 
such  exhaustion,  but  decline.' 

'  You — you  shall  go  home  to  the  Hollow.' 

'  Dreariness  would  accompany — nothing  cheerful  come 
near  me.' 

'  I  will  alter  this :  this  shall  be  altered,  were  there  ten 
Mrs.  Yorkes  to  do  battle  with.' 

1  Gary,  you  make  me  smile.' 

'  Do  smile  :  smile  again.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  should 
like?' 

'  Tell  me  anything — only  keep  talking.  I  am  Saul :  but 
for  music  I  should  perish.' 

'  I  should  like  you  to  be  brought  to  the  Rectory,  and 
given  to  me  and  mamma.' 

'  A  precious  gift !  I  have  not  laughed  since  they  shot 
me  till  now.' 

1  Do  you  suffer  pain,  Robert  ?  ' 

1  Not  so  much  pain  now  :  but  I  am  hopelessly  weak,  and 
the  state  of  my  mind  is  inexpressible — dark,  barren,  impotent. 
Do  you  not  read  it  all  in  my  face  ?  I  look  a  mere  ghost.' 

1  Altered,  yet  I  should  have  known  you  anywhere  :  but  I 
understand  your  feelings  :  I  experienced  something  like  it. 
Since  we  met,  I  too  have  been  very  ill.' 


MARTIN'S  TACTICS  599 

1  Very  ill  ? ' 

'  I  thought  I  should  die.  The  tale  of  my  life  seemed  told. 
Every  night,  just  at  midnight,  I  used  to  wake  from  awful 
dreams — and  the  book  lay  open  before  me  at  the  last  page, 
where  was  written  "  Finis."  I  had  strange  feelings.' 

'  You  speak  my  experience.' 

'  I  believed  I  should  never  see  you  again ;  and  I  grew  so 
thin — as  thin  as  you  are  now  :  I  could  do  nothing  for  myself 
— neither  rise  nor  lie  down  ;  and  I  could  not  eat—yet,  you 
see  I  am  better.' 

'  Comforter !  sad  as  sweet :  I  am  too  feeble  to  say  what  I 
feel ;  but,  while  you  speak,  I  do  feel.' 

'  Here,  I  am  at  your  side,  where  I  thought  never  more  to 
be :  here  I  speak  to  you — I  see  you  listen  to  me  willingly  — 
look  at  me  kindly.  Did  I  count  on  that?  I  despaired.' 

Moore  sighed — a  sigh  so  deep,  it  was  nearly  a  groan :  he 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

'  May  I  be  spared  to  make  some  atonement.' 

Such  was  his  prayer. 

'  And  for  what  ?  ' 

'  We  will  not  touch  on  it  now,  Gary ;  unmanned  as  I  am, 
I  have  not  the  power  to  cope  with  such  a  topic.  Was  Mrs. 
Pryor  with  you  during  your  illness  ?  ' 

1  Yes,'  (Caroline  smiled  brightly)— '  you  know  she  is 
mamma  ? ' 

'  I  have  heard  :  Hortense  told  me  ;  but  that  tale  too  I 
will  receive  from  yourself.  Does  she  add  to  your  happi- 
ness ? ' 

'  What !  mamma  ?  She  is  dear  to  me  ;  how  dear  I  cannot 
say.  I  was  altogether  weary,  and  she  held  me  up.' 

'  I  deserve  to  hear  that  in  a  moment  when  I  can  scarce 
lift  my  hand  to  my  head.  I  deserve  it.' 

1  It  is  no  reproach  against  you.' 

'  It  is  a  coal  of  fire  heaped  on  my  head  ;  and  so  is  every 
word  you  address  to  me,  and  every  look  tbat  lights  your 
sweet  face.  Come  still  nearer,  Lina,  and  give  me  your  hand 
— if  my  thin  fingers  do  not  scare  you.' 


600  SHIBLEY 

She  took  those  thin  fingers  between  her  two  little 
hands — she  bent  her  head  '  et  les  effleura  de  ses  levres  '  (I 
put  that  in  French,  because  the  word  '  effleurer '  is  an 
exquisite  word).  Moore  was  much  moved :  a  large  tear  or 
two  coursed  down  his  hollow  cheek. 

'  I'll  keep  these  things  in  my  heart,  Gary ;  that  kiss  I 
will  put  by,  and  you  shall  hear  of  it  again  one  day.' 

I  Come   out ! '  cried   Martin,  opening  the  door.     '  Come 
away — you  have  had  twenty  minutes  instead  of  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.' 

'  She  will  not  stir  yet— you  hempseed.' 

'  I  dare  not  stay  longer,  Eobert.' 

'  Can  you  promise  to  return  ? ' 

'  No,  she  can't,'  responded  Martin.  '  The  thing  musn't 
become  customary :  I  can't  be  troubled.  It's  very  well  for 
once  :  I'll  not  have  it  repeated,' 

'  You'll  not  have  it  repeated.' 

'  Hush  1  don't  vex  him — we  could  not  have  met  to-day  but 
for  him :  but  I  will  come  again,  if  it  is  your  wish  that  I 
should  come.' 

'  It  is  my  wish — my  one  wish — almost  the  only  wish  I  Gan 
feel.' 

'  Come  this  minute  :  my  mother  has  coughed,  got  up,  set 
her  feet  on  the  floor.  Let  her  only  catch  you  on  the  stairs, 
Miss  Caroline :  you're  not  to  bid  him  good-by '  (stepping 
between  her  and  Moore) — '  you  are  to  march.' 

'  My  shawl,  Martin.' 

I 1  have  it.     I'll  put  it  on  for  you  when  you  are  in  the 
hall.' 

He  made  them  part :  he  would  suffer  no  farewell  but 
what  could  be  expressed  in  looks  :  he  half  carried  Caroline 
down  the  stairs.  In  the  hall  he  wrapped  her  shawl  round  her, 
and — but  that  his  mother's  tread  then  creaked  in  the  gallery, 
and  but  that  a  sentiment  ol  diffidence—  the  proper,  natural, 
therefore  the  noble  impulse  of  his  boy's  heait,  held  him  back, 
hu  would  have  claimed  his  reward — he  would  have  said, 
'  Now,  Miss  Caroline,  for  all  this  give  me  one  kiss.'  But  ere 


MARTIN'S  TACTICS  601 

the  words  had  passed  his  lips,  she  was  across  the  snowy 
road,  rather  skimming  than  wading  the  drifts. 

'  She  is  my  debtor,  and  I  will  be  paid.' 

He  flattered  himself  that  it  was  opportunity,  not 
audacity,  which  had  failed  him  :  he  misjudged  the  quality  of 
his  own  nature,  and  held  it  for  something  lower  than  it  was. 


CHAPTER  xxxiv 

CASE  OP  DOMESTIC  PERSECUTION — BEMABKABLE  INSTANCE 
OF  PIOUS  PEBSEVEBANCE  IN  THE  DISCHARGE  OF  RELI- 
GIOUS  DUTIES 

MARTIN  having  known  the  taste  of  excitement,  wanted  a 
second  draught ;  having  felt  the  dignity  of  power,  he  loathed 
to  relinquish  it.  Miss  Helstone — that  girl  he  had  always 
called  ugly,  and  whose  face  was  now  perpetually  before  his 
eyes,  by  day  and  by  night,  in  dark  and  in  sunshine — had 
once  come  within  his  sphere  :  it  fretted  him  to  think  the  visit 
might  never  be  repeated.  Though  a  schoolboy,  he  was  no 
ordinary  schoolboy :  he  was  destined  to  grow  up  an  original. 
At  a  few  years'  later  date,  he  took  great  pains  to  pare  and 
polish  himself  down  to  the  pattern  of  the  rest  of  the  world, 
but  he  never  succeeded :  an  unique  stamp  marked  him 
always.  He  now  sat  idle  at  his  desk  in  the  grammar- 
school,  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  the  means  of  adding 
another  chapter  to  his  commenced  romance  :  he  did  not  yet 
know  how  many  commenced  life-romances  are  doomed 
never  to  get  beyond  the  first — or,  at  most,  the  second 
chapter.  His  Saturday  half -holiday  he  spent  in  the  wood 
with  his  book  of  fairy  legends,  and  that  other  unwritten  book 
of  his  imagination. 

Martin  harboured  an  irreligious  reluctance  to  see  the 
approach  of  Sunday.  His  father  and  mother — while  dis- 
claiming community  with  the  establishment— failed  not  duly, 
once  on  the  sacred  day,  to  fill  their  large  pew  in  Briarfield 
church  with  the  whole  of  their  blooming  family.  Thcoreti- 
cally,  Mr.  Yorke  placed  all  sects  and  churches  on  a  level : 
M  a.  Yorke  awarded  the  palm  to  Moravians  and  Quakers, 


CASE  OF  DOMESTIC  PERSECUTION        603 

on  account  of  that  crown  of  humility  by  these  worthies  worn : 
neither  of  them  were  ever  known,  however,  to  set  foot  in  a 
conventicle. 

Martin,  I  say,  disliked  Sunday,  because  the  morning 
service  was  long,  and  the  sermon  usually  little  to  his  taste  : 
this  Saturday  afternoon,  however,  his  woodland  musingn  dis- 
closed to  him  a  new-found  charm  in  the  coming  day. 

It  proved  a  day  of  deep  snow  :  so  deep,  that  Mrs.  Yorke, 
during  breakfast,  announced  her  conviction  that  the  children, 
both  boys  and  girls,  would  be  better  at  home ;  and  her 
decision  that,  instead  of  going  to  church,  they  should  sit 
silent  for  two  hours  in  the  back-parlour,  while  Rose  and 
Martin  alternately  read  a  succession  of  sermons — John 
Wesley's  Sermons  :  John  Wesley,  being  a  Reformer  and  an 
Agitator,  had  a  place  both  in  her  own  and  her  husband's 
favour.  '  Rose  will  do  as  she  pleases,'  said  Martin,  not  look- 
ing up  from  the  book  which,  according  to  his  custom  then 
and  in  after-life,  he  was  studying  over  his  bread-and-milk. 

'  Rose  will  do  as  she  is  told,  and  Martin  too,'  observed 
the  mother. 

'  I  am  going  to  church.'  So  her  son  replied,  with  the 
ineffable  quietude  of  a  true  Yorke,  who  knows  his  will  and 
means  to  have  it,  and  who,  if  pushed  to  the  wall,  will  let  him- 
self be  crushed  to  death,  provided  no  way  of  escape  can  be 
found — but  will  never  capitulate. 

'  It  is  not  fit  weather,'  said  the  father.  No  answer  :  the 
youth  read  studiously ;  he  slowly  broke  his  bread  and 
sipped  his  milk.  '  Martin  hates  to  go  to  church,  but  he 
hates  still  more  to  obey,'  said  Mrs.  Yorke. 

'  I  suppose  I  am  influenced  by  pure  perverseness  ? ' 

'  Yes-  you  are.' 

'  Mother — I  am  not.' 

'  By  what,  then,  are  you  influenced? ' 

'  By  a  complication  of  motives  ;  the  intricacies  of  which  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  explaining  to  you  as  I  should  of 
turning  myself  inside  out  to  exhibit  the  internal  machinery 
of  my  frame.' 


604  SHIELEY 

4  Hear  Martin  !  Hear  him  ! '  cried  Mr.  Yorke.  '  I  must 
see  and  have  this  lad  of  mine  brought  up  to  the  Bar  :  Nature 
meant  him  to  live  by  his  tongue.  Hesther,  your  third  son 
must  certainly  be  a  lawyer  :  he  has  the  stock  in  trade — brass, 
self-conceit,  and  words — words.' 

'  Some  bread,  Rose,  if  you  please,'  requested  Martin,  with 
intense  gravity,  serenity,  phlegm  :  the  boy  had  naturally  a 
low,  plaintive  voice,  which,  in  his  '  dour  moods,'  rose  scarcely 
above  a  lady's  whisper :  the  more  inflexibly  stubborn  the 
humour,  the  softer,  the  sadder  the  tone.  He  rang  the  bell, 
and  gently  asked  for  his  walking-shoes. 

'  But,  Martin,'  urged  his  sire,  '  there  is  drift  all  the  way 
— a  man  could  hardly  wade  through  it.  However,  lad,'  he 
continued,  seeing  that  the  boy  rose  as  the  church-bell  began 
to  toll,  '  this  is  a  case  wherein  I  would  by  no  means  baulk 
the  obdurate  chap  of  his  will.  Go  to  church  by  all  means. 
There  is  a  pitiless  wind,  and  a  sharp,  frozen  sleet,  besides 
the  depth  underfoot.  Go  out  into  it,  since  thou  prefers  it  to 
a  warm  fireside.' 

Martin  quietly  assumed  his  cloak,  comforter,  and  cap, 
and  deliberately  went  out.  '  My  father  has  more  sense  than 
my  mother,'  he  pronounced.  '  How  women  miss  it !  They 
drive  the  nail  into  the  flesh,  thinking  they  are  hammering 
away  at  insensate  stone.' — He  reached  church  early. — 
'  Now,  if  the  weather  frightens  her  (and  it  is  a  real  December 
tempest),  or  if  that  Mrs.  Pryor  objects  to  her  going  out,  and 
I  should  miss  her  after  all,  it  will  vex  me :  but,  tempest  or 
tornado,  hail  or  ice,  she  ought  to  come  ;  and,  if  she  has  a 
mind  worthy  of  her  eyes  and  features,  she  will  come  :  she 
will  be  here  for  the  chance  of  seeing  me,  as  I  am  here  for 
the  chance  of  seeing  her :  she  will  want  to  get  a  word 
respecting  her  confounded  sweetheart,  as  I  want  to  get 
another  flavour  of  what  I  think  the  essence  of  life  :  a  taste 
of  existence,  with  the  spirit  preserved  in  it,  and  not 
evaporated.  Adventure  is  to  stagnation  what  champagne  is 
to  flat  porter.' 

He  looked  round.     The  church  was  cold,  silent,  empty, 


CASE  OF  DOMESTIC  PERSECUTION       605 

but  for  one  old  woman.  As  the  chimes  subsided,  and  the 
single  bell  tolled  slowly,  another  and  another  elderly 
parishioner  came  dropping  in,  and  took  a  humble  station  in 
the  free  sittings.  It  is  always  the  frailest,  the  oldest,  and  the 
poorest  that  brave  the  worst  weather,  to  prove  and  maintain 
their  constancy  to  dear  old  mother  Church  :  this  wild 
morning,  not  one  affluent  family  attended,  not  one  carriage 
party  appeared — all  the  lined  and  cushioned  pews  were 
empty ;  only  on  the  bare  oaken  seats  sat  ranged  the  grey- 
haired  elders  and  feeble  paupers. 

'  I'll  scorn  her,  if  she  doesn't  come,'  muttered  Martin 
shortly  and  savagely  to  himself.  The  Rector's  shovel-hat 
had  passed  the  porch :  Mr.  Helstone  and  his  clerk  were  in 
the  vestry.  The  bells  ceased — the  reading-desk  was  filled — 
the  doors  were  closed — the  service  commenced :  void  stood 
the  Rectory-pew- — she  was  not  there :  Martin  scorned  her. 
'  Worthless  thing  I  Vapid  thing  !  Commonplace  humbug  ! 
Like  all  other  girls — weakly,  selfish,  shallow ! '  Sucli  w.is 
Martin's  liturgy.  '  She  is  not  like  our  picture :  her  eyes  are 
not  large  and  expressive  :  her  nose  is  not  straight,  delicate, 
Hellenic  :  her  mouth  has  not  that  charm  I  thought  it  had — 
which,  I  imagined,  could  beguile  me  of  sullenness  in  my 
worst  moods.  What  is  she  ?  A  thread-paper,  a  doll,  a  toy 
— a  girl,  in  short.' 

So  absorbed  was  the  young  cynic,  he  forgot  to  rise  from 
his  knees  at  the  proper  place,  and  was  still  in  an  exemplary 
attitude  of  devotion  when — the  litany  over — the  first  hymn 
was  given  out.  To  be  so  caught  did  not  contribute  to  soothe 
him  :  he  started  up  red  (for  he  was  as  sensitive  to  ridicule 
as  any  girl).  To  make  the  matter  worse,  the  church-door 
had  re-opened,  and  the  aisles  were  filling :  patter,  patter, 
patter,  a  hundred  little  feet  trotted  in.  It  was  the  Sunday- 
scholars.  According  to  Briarfield  winter  custom,  these 
children  had  till  now  been  kept  where  there  was  a  warm 
stove,  and  only  led  into  church  just  before  the  Communion 
and  Sermon. 

The  little  ones  were  settled  first,  and  at  last,  when  the 


606  SHIRLEY 

boys  and  the  younger  girls  were  all  arranged — when  the 
organ  was  swelling  high,  and  the  choir  and  congregation 
were  rising  to  uplift  a  spiritual  song — a  tall  class  of  young 
women  came  quietly  in,  closing  the  procession.  Their 
teacher,  having  seen  them  seated,  passed  into  the  Rectory- 
pew.  The  French-grey  cloak  and  small  heaver  bonnet  were 
known  to  Martin  :  it  was  the  very  costume  his  eyes  had 
ached  to  catch.  Miss  Helstone  had  not  suffered  the  storm 
to  prove  an  impediment :  after  all,  she  was  come  to  church. 
Martin  probably  whispered  his  satisfaction  to  his  hymn- 
book  ;  at  any  rate,  he  therewith  hid  his  face  two  minutes. 
Satisfied  or  not,  he  had  time  to  get  very  angry  with  her 
again  before  the  sermon  was  over;  she  had  never  once 
looked  his  way :  at  least,  he  had  not  been  so  lucky  as  to 
encounter  a  glance.  '  If,'  he  said — '  if  she  takes  no  notice 
of  rne ;  if  she  shows  I  am  not  in  her  thoughts,  I  shall 
have  a  worse,  a  meaner  opinion  of  her  than  ever.  Most 
despicable  would  it  be  to  come  for  the  sake  of  those  sheep- 
faced  Sunday-scholars,  and  not  for  my  sake,  or  that  long 
skeleton  Moore's.'  The  sermon  found  an  end  ;  the  bene- 
diction was  pronounced  ;  the  congregation  dispersed  :  she  had 
not  been  near  him.  Now,  indeed,  as  Martin  set  his  face 
homeward,  ho  felt  that  the  sleet  was  sharp,  and  the  east 
wind  cold. 

His  nearest  way  lay  through  some  fields  :  it  was  a 
dangerous,  because  an  untrodden  way  :  he  did  not  care ;  he 
would  take  it.  Near  the  second  stile  rose  a  clump  of  trees  : 
was  that  an  umbrella  waiting  there  ?  Yes  :  an  umbrella  held 
with  evident  difficulty  against  the  blast :  behind  it  fluttered 
a  French-grey  cloak.  Martin  grinned  as  he  toiled  up  the 
steep  encumbered  field,  difficult  to  the  foot  as  a  slope  in  the 
upper  realms  of  Etna.  There  was  an  inimitable  look  in  his 
face  when,  having  gained  the  stile,  he  seated  himself  coolly 
thereupon,  and  thus  opened  a  conference  which,  for  his 
own  part,  he  was  willing  to  prolong  indefinitely.  '  I 
think  you  had  better  strike  a  bargain  :  exchange  me  for 
Mrs.  Pryor.' 


lKSTAi.L    cni'Hcii    (m;i\KFii:i.i>    cnritcii). 

The  tower  only  remains  of  the  cliuri-h  described. 


CASE  OF  DOMESTIC  PERSECUTION        607 

'  I  was  not  sure  whether  you  would  come  this  way, 
Martin  ;  but  I  thought  I  would  run  the  chance  :  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  getting  a  quiet  word  spoken  in  the  church  or 
churchyard.' 

'  Will  you  agree  ?  Make  over  Mrs.  Pryor  to  my  mother, 
and  put  me  in  her  skirts  ? ' 

'  As  if  I  could  understand  you  !  What  puts  Mrs.  Pryor 
into  your  head  ? ' 

'  You  call  her  "  mamma,"  don't  you  ? ' 

'  She  is  my  mamma.' 

1  Not  possible — or  so  inefficient,  so  careless  a  mamma — I 
should  make  a  five  times  better  one.  You  may  laugh  :  I 
have  no  objection  to  see  you  laugh  :  your  teeth — I  hate  ugly 
teeth ;  but  yours  are  as  pretty  as  a  pearl  necklace,  and  a 
necklace,  of  which  the  pearls  are  very  fair,  even,  and  well 
matched  too.' 

1  Martin,  what  now  ?  I  thought  the  Yorkes  never  paid 
compliments  ?  ' 

'  They  have  not  done  till  this  generation  ;  but  I  feel  as  if 
it  were  my  vocation  to  turn  out  a  new  variety  of  the  Yorke 
species.  I  am  rather  tired  of  my  own  ancestors  :  we  have 
traditions  going  back  for  four  ages — tales  of  Hiram,  which 
was  the  son  of  Hiram,  which  was  the  son  of  Samuel,  which 
was  the  son  of  John,  which  was  the  son  of  Zernbbabel 
Yorke.  All,  from  Zerubbabel  down  to  the  last  Hiram,  were 
such  as  you  see  my  father.  Before  that,  there  was  a 
Godfrey :  we  have  his  picture ;  it  hangs  in  Moore's  bed- 
room :  it  is  like  me.  Of  his  character  we  know  nothing ; 
but  I  am  sure  it  was  different  to  his  descendants:  he  has 
long  curling  dark  hair  ;  he  is  carefully  and  cavalierly  dressed. 
Having  said  that  he  is  like  me,  I  need  not  add  that  he  is  hand- 
some.' 

'  You  are  not  handsome,  Martin.' 

'  No  ;  hut  wait  a  while :  just  let  me  take  my  time  :  I 
mean  to  begin  from  this  day  to  cultivate,  to  polish,— and  we 
shall  see.' 

'  You   are  a  very  strange — a   very   unaccountable    boy, 


608  SHIRLEY 

Martin ;  but  don't  imagine  you  ever  will  be  handsome  :  you 
cannot.' 

'  I  mean  to  try.  But  we  were  talking  about  Mrs.  Pryor : 
she  must  be  the  most  unnatural  mamma  in  existence,  coolly 
to  let  her  daughter  come  out  in  this  weather.  Mine  was  in 
such  a  rage,  because  I  would  go  to  church  :  she  was  fit  to 
fling  the  kitchen-brush  after  me.  Mamma  was  very  much 
concerned  about  me ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  was  obstinate  :  I 
would  go.' 

1  To  see  me  ?  ' 

'  Exactly :  I  thought  of  nothing  else.  I  greatly  feared 
the  snow  would  hinder  you  from  coming :  you  don't  know 
how  pleased  I  was  to  see  you  all  by  yourself  in  the  pew.' 

'  I  came  to  fulfil  my  duty,  and  set  the  parish  a  good 
example.  And  so  you  were  obstinate,  were  you  ?  I  should 
like  to  see  you  obstinate,  I  should.  Wouldn't  I  have  you 
in  good  discipline,  if  I  owned  you  ?  Let  me  take  the 
umbrella.  I  can't  stay  two  minutes :  our  dinner  will  be 
ready.' 

4  And  so  will  ours ;  and  we  have  always  a  hot  dinner 
on  Sundays.  Roast  goose  to-day,  with  apple-pie  and  rice- 
pudding.  I  always  contrive  to  know  the  bill  of  fare  :  well, 
I  like  these  things  uncommonly ;  but  I'll  make  the  sacrifice, 
if  you  will.' 

'  We  have  a  cold  dinner :  my  uncle  will  allow  no  un- 
necessary cooking  on  the  Sabbath.  But  I  must  return  :  the 
house  would  be  in  commotion,  if  I  failed  to  appear.' 

'  So  will  Briarmains,  bless  you  !  I  think  I  hear  my 
father  sending  out  the  overlooker  and  five  of  the  dyers,  to 
look  in  six  directions  for  the  body  of  his  prodigal  son  in  the 
snow  :  and  my  mother  repenting  her  of  her  many  misdeeds 
towards  me,  now  I  am  gone.' 

'  Martin,  how  is  Mr.  Moore  ?  ' 

1  That  is  what  you  came  for — just  to  say  that  word.' 

1  Come,  tell  me  quickly.' 

'  Hang  him  !  he  is  no  worse ;  but  as  ill-used  as  ever — 
mewed  up,  kept  in  solitary  confinement.  They  mean  to 


CASE  OF  DOMESTIC  PEKSECUTION        600 

make  either  an  idiot  or  a  maniac  of  him,  and  take  out  a 
commission  of  lunacy.  Horsfall  starves  him  :  you  saw  how 
thin  he  was.' 

'  You  were  very  good  the  other  day,  Martin.1 

1  What  day  ?     I  am  always  good — a  model.' 

'  When  will  you  be  so  good  again  ?  ' 

'  I  see  what  you  are  after  ;  but  you'll  not  wheedle  me  : 
I  am  no  cat's  paw.' 

'  But  it  must  be  done :  it  is  quite  a  right  thing,  and  a 
necessary  thing.' 

'  How  you  encroach  !  Bemember,  I  managed  the  matter 
of  my  own  free  will  before.' 

'  And  you  will  again.' 

'  I  won't :  the  business  gave  me  far  too  much  trouble ;  I 
like  my  ease.' 

'  Mr.  Moore  wishes  to  see  me,  Martin  ;  and  I  wish  to  see 
him.' 

'  I  daresay '  (coolly). 

'  It  is  too  bad  of  your  mother  to  exclude  his  friends.' 

'  Tell  her  so.' 

'  His  own  relations.' 

'  Come  and  blow  her  up.' 

1  You  know  that  would  advance  nothing.  Well,  I  shall 
stick  to  my  point.  See  him  I  will.  If  you  won't  help  me, 
I'll  manage  without  help.' 

'  Do  :  there  is  nothing  like  self-reliance — self-depend- 
ence.' 

'  I  have  no  time  to  reason  with  you  now  ;  but  I  consider 
you  provoking.  Good  morning.'  Away  she  went — the 
umbrella  shut ;  for  she  could  not  carry  it  against  the 
wind. 

'  She  is  not  vapid ;  she  is  not  shallow,'  said  Martin.  '  I 
shall  like  to  watch,  and  mark  how  she  will  work  her  way 
without  help.  If  the  storm  were  not  of  snow,  but  of  fire — 
such  as  came  refreshingly  down  on  the  cities  of  the  plain — 
she  would  go  through  it  to  procure  five  minutes'  speech  of 
that  Moore.  Now,  I  consider  I  have  had  a  pleasant  morning : 


610  SHIELEY 

the  disappointments  got  time  on  :  the  fears  and  fits  of  anger 
only  made  that  short  discourse  pleasanter,  when  it  came  at 
last.  She  expected  to  coax  me  at  once :  she'll  not  manage 
that  in  one  effort :  she  shall  come  again,  again,  and  yet 
again.  It  would  please  me  to  put  her  in  a  passion — to  make 
her  cry :  I  want  to  discover  how  far  she  will  go — what  she 
will  do  and  dare — to  get  her  will.  It  seems  strange  and  new 
to  find  one  human  being  thinking  so  much  about  another 
as  she  thinks  about  Moore. — But  it  is  time  to  go  home ; 
my  appetite  tells  me  the  hour :  won't  I  walk  into  that 
goose  ? — and  we'll  try  whether  Matthew  or  I  shall  get  the 
largest  cut  of  the  apple-pie  to-day.' 


CHAPTEE  XXXV 

WHEREIN   MATTERS   MAKE    SOME   PROGRESS,    BUT   NOT    MUCH 

MARTIN  had  planned  well :  he  had  laid  out  a  dexterously  con- 
certed scheme  for  his  private  amusement;  but  older  and 
wiser  schemers  than  he  are  often  doomed  to  see  their  finest- 
spun  projects  swept  to  annihilation  by  the  sudden  broom  of 
Fate — that  fell  housewife,  whose  red  arm  none  can  control. 
In  the  present  instance,  this  broom  was  manufactured  out  of 
the  tough  fibres  of  Moore's  own  stubborn  purpose,  bound  tight 
with  his  will.  He  was  now  resuming  his  strength,  and 
making  strange  head  against  Mrs.  Horsfall.  Each  morning 
he  amazed  that  matron  with  a  fresh  astonishment.  First,  he 
discharged  her  from  her  valet-duties  :  he  would  dress  himself. 
Then,  he  refused  the  coffee  she  brought  him  :  he  would 
breakfast  with  the  family.  Lastly,  he  forbade  her  his 
chamber.  On  the  same  day,  amidst  the  outcries  of  all  the 
women  in  the  place,  he  put  his  head  out  of  doors.  The 
morning  after,  he  followed  Mr.  Yorke  to  his  counting-house, 
and  requested  an  envoy  to  fetch  a  chaise  from  the  Red-House 
Inn.  He  was  resolved,  he  said,  to  return  home  to  the 
Hollow  that  very  afternoon.  Mr.  Yorke,  instead  of  oppos- 
ing, aided  and  abetted  him  :  the  chaise  was  sent  for,  though 
Mrs.  Yorke  declared  the  step  would  be  his  death.  It  came. 
Moore,  little  disposed  to  speak,  made  his  purse  do  duty 
for  his  tongue  :  he  expressed  his  gratitude  to  the  servants 
and  to  Mrs.  Horsfall,  by  the  chink  of  his  coin.  The  latter 
personage  approved  and  understood  this  language  perfectly ; 


612  8HIBLEY 

it  made  amends  for  all  previous  contumacy :  she  and  her 
patient  parted  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 

The  kitchen  visited  and  soothed,  Moore  betook  himself  to 
the  parlour  ;  he  had  Mrs.  Yorke  to  appease ;  not  quite  so 
easy  a  task  as  the  pacification  of  her  housemaids.  There  she 
sat  plunged  in  sullen  dudgeon  ;  the  gloomiest  speculations 
on  the  depths  of  man's  ingratitude  absorbing  her  thoughts. 
He  drew  near  and  bent  over  her  ;  she  was  obliged  to  look  up, 
if  it  were  only  to  bid  him  '  avaunt.'  There  was  beauty  still 
in  his  pale,  wasted  features ;  there  was  earnestness,  and 
a  sort  of  sweetness — for  he  was  smiling — in  his  hollow 
eyes. 

'  Good-by  ! '  he  said ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  the  smile  glit- 
tered and  melted.  He  had  no  iron  mastery  of  his  sensations 
now  :  a  trifling  emotion  made  itself  apparent  in  his  present 
weak  state. 

'  And  what  are  you  going  to  leave  us  for  ?  '  she  asked  : 
'  we  will  keep  you,  and  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  if 
you  will  only  stay  till  you  are  stronger.' 

'  Good-by  ! '  he  again  said  :  and  added,  '  you  have  been  a 
mother  to  me :  give  your  wilful  son  one  embrace.' 

Like  a  foreigner,  as  he  was,  he  offered  her  first  one  cheek, 
then  the  other :  she  kissed  him. 

'  What  a  trouble — what  a  burden  I  have  been  to  you  ! '  he 
muttered. 

'  You  are  the  worst  trouble  now,  headstrong  youth  ! '  was 
the  answer.  '  I  wonder  who  is  to  nurse  you  at  Hollow's 
cottage :  your  sister  Hortense  knows  no  more  about  such 
matters  than  a  child.' 

'  Thank  God  !  for  I  have  had  nursing  enough  to  last  me 
my  life.' 

Here  the  little  girls  came  in  ;  Jessie  crying,  Rose  quiet, 
but  grave.  Moore  took  them  out  into  the  hall  to  soothe, 
pet,  and  kiss  them.  He  knew  it  was  not  in  their  mother's 
nature  to  bear  to  see  any  living  thing  caressed  but  herself  : 
she  would  have  felt  annoyed  had  he  fondled  a  kitten  in  her 
presence. 


MATTERS   MAKE   SLOW   PROGRESS        613 

The  boys  were  standing  about  the  chaise  as  Moore  entered 
it ;  but  for  them  he  had  no  farewell.  To  Mr.  Yorke  he  only 
said, — '  You  have  a  good  riddance  of  me :  that  was  an  unlucky 
shot  for  you,  Yorke  ;  it  turned  Briarmains  into  an  hospital. 
Come  and  see  me  at  the  cottage  soon.' 

He  drew  up  the  glass ;  the  chaLe  rolled  away.  In  half 
an  hour  he  alighted  at  his  own  garden  wicket.  Having  paid 
the  driver  and  dismissed  the  vehicle,  he  leaned  on  that 
wicket  an  instant,  at  once  to  rest  and  to  muse. 

'  Six  months  ago  I  passed  out  of  this  gate,'  said  he,  '  a 
proud,  angry,  disappointed  man  ;  I  come  back  sadder  and 
wiser ;  weakly  enough,  but  not  worried.  A  cold,  grey,  yet 
quiet  world  lies  round — a  world  where,  if  I  hope  little,  I  fear 
nothing.  All  slavish  terrors  of  embarrassment  have  left  me  : 
let  the  worst  come,  I  can  work,  as  Joe  Scott  does,  for  an 
honourable  living  :  in  such  doom  I  yet  see  some  hardship,  but 
no  degradation.  Formerly,  pecuniary  ruin  was  equivalent  in 
my  eyes  to  personal  dishonour.  It  is  not  so  now  :  I  know 
the  difference.  Ruin  is  an  evil;  but  one  for  which  I  am 
prepared  ;  the  day  of  whose  coming  I  know,  for  I  have  cal- 
culated. I  can  yet  put  it  off  six  months— not  an  hour  longer  : 
if  things  by  that  time  alter — which  is  not  probable  ;  if  fetters, 
which  now  seem  indissoluble,  should  be  loosened  from  our 
trade  (of  all  things  the  most  unlikely  to  happen) — I  might 

conquer  in  this  long  struggle  yet— I  might Good  God  I 

what  might  I  not  do  ?  But  the  thought  is  a  brief  madness  : 
let  me  see  things  with  sane  eyes.  Ruin  will  come,  lay  her 
axe  to  my  fortune's  roots,  and  hew  them  down.  I  shall 
snatch  a  sapling,  I  shall  cross  the  sea,  and  plant  it  in 
American  woods.  Louis  will  go  with  me.  Will  none  but 
Louis  go  ?  I  cannot  tell — I  have  no  light  to  ask.' 

He  entered  the  house. 

It  was  afternoon,  twilight  yet  out  of  doors  :  starless  and 
moonless  twilight ;  for,  though  keenly  freezing  with  a  dry, 
black  frost,  heaven  wore  a  mask  of  clouds  congealed  and 
fast-locked.  The  mill-dam  too  was  frozen  :  the  Hollow  was 
very  still :  indoors  it  was  already  dark.  Sarah  had  lit  a 


614  SHIRLEY 

good  fire  in  the  parlour ;  she  was  preparing  tea  in  the 
kitchen. 

'  Hortense,'  said  Moore,  as  his  sister  bustled  up  to  help 
him  off  with  his  cloak,  '  I  am  pleased  to  come  home.' 

Hortense  did  not  feel  the  peculiar  novelty  of  this  expres- 
sion coming  from  her  brother,  who  had  never  before  called 
the  cottage  his  home,  and  to  whom  its  narrow  limits  had 
always  heretofore  seemed  rather  restrictive  than  protective  : 
still,  whatever  contributed  to  his  happiness  pleased  her  ;  and 
she  expressed  herself  to  that  effect. 

He  sat  down,  but  soon  rose  again  :  he  went  to  the  win- 
dow ;  he  came  back  to  the  fire. 

'  Hortense  ! ' 

'  Mon  frere  ? ' 

'This  little  parlour  looks  very  clean  and  pleasant: 
unusually  bright,  somehow.' 

'  It  is  true,  brother :  I  have  had  the  whole  house 
thoroughly  and  scrupulously  cleaned  in  your  absence.' 

'  Sister,  I  think  on  this  first  day  of  my  return  home,  you 
ought  to  have  a  friend  or  so  to  tea ;  if  it  were  only  to  see 
bow  fresh  and  spruce  you  have  made  the  little  place.' 

'  True,  brother  :  if  it  were  not  late  I  might  send  for  Miss 
Mann.' 

'  So  you  might ;  but  it  really  is  too  late  to  disturb  that 
good  lady ;  and  the  evening  is  much  too  cold  for  her  to 
come  out.' 

1  How  thoughtful  in  you,  dear  Gerard  !  We  must  put  it 
off  till  another  day.' 

'  I  want  some  one  to-day,  dear  sister :  some  quiet  guest, 
who  would  tire  neither  of  us.' 

'  Miss  Ainley  ?  ' 

'  An  excellent  person,  they  say ;  but  she  lives  too  far  off. 
Tell  Harry  Scott  to  step  up  to  the  Rectory  with  a  request 
from  you  that  Caroline  Helstone  should  come  and  spend  the 
evening  with  you.' 

'  Would  it  not  be  better  to-morrow,  dear  brother?  ' 

'  1  should  like  her  to  see  the  place  as  it  is  just  now ;  its 


MATTEBS  MAKE  SLOW  PKOGBESS        615 

brilliant  cleanliness  and  perfect  neatness  are  so  much  to 
your  credit.' 

'  It  might  benefit  her  in  the  way  of  example.' 

'  It  might  and  must :  she  ought  to  come.' 

He  went  into  the  kitchen. 

'  Sarah,  delay  tea  half  an  hour.'  He  then  commissioned 
her  to  despatch  Harry  Scott  to  the  Rectory,  giving  her  a 
twisted  note  hastily  scribbled  in  pencil  by  himself,  and 
addressed  '  Miss  Helstone.' 

Scarcely  had  Sarah  time  to  get  impatient  under  the  fear 
of  damage  to  her  toast  already  prepared,  when  the  messenger 
returned  ;  and  with  him  the  invited  guest. 

She  entered  through  the  kitchen,  quietly  tripped  up 
Sarah's  stairs  to  take  off  her  bonnet  and  furs,  and  came 
down  as  quietly,  with  her  beautiful  curls  nicely  smoothed ; 
her  graceful  merino  dress  and  delicate  collar  all  trim  and 
spotless  ;  her  gay  little  work-bag  in  her  hand.  She  lingered 
to  exchange  a  few  kindly  words  with  Sarah  ;  and  to  look  at 
the  new  tortoiseshell  kitten  basking  on  the  kitchen  hearth  ; 
and  to  speak  to  the  canary-bird,  which  a  sudden  blaze  from 
the  fire  had  startled  on  its  perch  ;  and  then  she  betook  her- 
self to  the  parlour. 

The  gentle  salutation,  the  friendly  welcome,  were  inter- 
changed in  such  tranquil  sort  as  befitted  cousins  meeting;  a 
sense  of  pleasure,  subtle  and  quiet  as  a  perfume,  diffused 
itself  through  the  room  ;  the  newly-kindled  lamp  burned  up 
bright ;  the  tray  and  the  singing  urn  were  brought  in. 

'  I  am  pleased  to  come  home,'  repeated  Mr.  Moore. 

They  assembled  round  the  table.  Hortense  chiefly 
talked.  She  congratulated  Caroline  on  the  evident  improve- 
ment in  her  health  :  her  colour  and  her  plump  cheeks  were 
returning,  she  remarked.  It  was  true.  There  was  an 
obvious  change  in  Miss  Helstone  :  all  about  her  seemed 
elastic  ;  depression,  fear,  forlornness,  were  withdrawn  :  no 
longer  crushed,  and  saddened,  and  slow,  and  drooping,  she 
looked  like  one  who  had  tasted  the  cordial  of  heart's  ease, 
and  been  lifted  on  the  wing  of  hope. 


616  SHIKLEY 

After  tea,  Hortense  went  up-stairs  :  she  had  not  rum- 
maged her  drawers  for  a  month  past,  and  the  impulse  to 
perform  that  operation  was  now  become  resistless.  During 
her  absence,  the  talk  passed  into  Caroline's  hands :  she 
took  it  up  with  ease  ;  she  fell  into  her  best  tone  of  conver- 
sation. A  pleasing  facility  and  elegance  of  language  gave 
fresh  charm  to  familiar  topics;  a  new  music  in  the  always 
soft  voice  gently  surprised  and  pleasingly  captivated  the 
listener  ;  unwonted  shades  and  lights  of  expression  elevated 
the  young  countenance  with  character,  and  kindled  it  with 
animation. 

'  Caroline,  you  look  as  if  you  had  heard  good  tidings,' 
said  Moore,  after  earnestly  gazing  at  her  for  some  minutes. 

'  Do  I  ?  ' 

'  I  sent  for  you  this  evening  that  I  might  be  cheered ; 
but  you  cheer  me  more  than  I  had  calculated.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  that.     And  I  really  cheer  you  ?  ' 

'  You  look  brightly,  move  buoyantly,  speak  musically.' 

'  It  is  pleasant  to  be  here  again.' 

'  Truly  it  is  pleasant :  I  feel  it  so.  And  to  see  health  on 
your  cheek,  and  hope  in  your  eye,  is  pleasant,  Gary  ;  but 
what  is  this  hope,  and  what  is  the  source  of  this  sunshine  I 
perceive  about  you  ?  ' 

'  For  one  thing  I  am  happy  in  mamma ;  I  love  her  so 
much,  and  she  loves  me.  Long  and  tenderly  she  nursed 
me  ;  now,  when  her  care  has  made  me  well,  I  can  occupy 
myself  for  and  with  her  all  the  day.  I  say  it  is  my  turn  to 
attend  to  her  ;  and  I  do  attend  to  her  :  I  am  her  waiting- 
woman,  as  well  as  her  child  :  I  like— you  would  laugh  if 
you  knew  what  pleasure  I  have  in  making  dresses  and 
sewing  for  her.  She  looks  so  nice  now,  Robert :  I  will  not 
let  her  be  old-fashioned.  And  then,  she  is  charming  to  talk 
to  :  full  of  wisdom  ;  ripe  in  judgment ;  rich  in  information  ; 
exhaustless  in  stores  her  observant  faculties  have  quietly 
amassed.  Every  day  that  I  live  with  her,  I  like  her  better ; 
I  esteem  her  more  highly  ;  I  love  her  more  tenderly.' 

'  That  for  one  thing,  then,  Gary :  you  talk  in  such  a  way 


MATTERS   MAKE   SLOW   PEOGEESS         617 

about  "  mamma,"  it  is  enough  to  make  one  jealous  of  the 
old  lady.' 

'  She  is  not  old,  Eobert.' 

'  Of  the  young  lady,  then.' 

'  She  does  not  pretend  to  be  young.' 

1  Well — of  the  matron.  But  you  said,  "  mamma's  " 
affection  was  one  thing  that  made  you  happy  :  now  for  the 
other  thing.' 

'  I  am  glad  you  are  better.' 

4  What  besides  ?  ' 

'  I  am  glad  we  are  friends.' 

'  You  and  I  ? ' 

'  Yes :  I  once  thought  we  never  should  be.' 

'  Gary,  some  day  I  mean  to  tell  you  a  thing  about  myself 
that  is  not  to  my  credit,  and,  consequently,  will  not  please 
you.' 

'  Ah ! — don't !     I  cannot  bear  to  think  ill  of  you.' 

'  And  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  think  better  of  me 
than  I  deserve.' 

'  Well,  but  I  half  know  your  "  thing  :  "  indeed,  I  believe 
I  know  all  about  it.' 

'  You  do  not.' 

'  I  believe  I  do.' 

'  Whom  does  it  concern  besides  me  ? ' 

She  coloured  ;  she  hesitated  ;  she  was  silent. 

'  Speak,  Gary  !  -whom  does  it  concern?  ' 

She  tried  to  utter  a  name,  and  could  not. 

'  Tell  me :  there  is  none  present  but  ourselves :  be 
frank.' 

'  But  if  I  guess  wrong  ?  ' 

'  I  will  forgive.     Whisper,  Gary.' 

He  bent  his  ear  to  her  lips  :  still  she  would  not,  or  could 
not,  speak  clearly  to  the  point.  Seeing  that  Moore  waited, 
and  was  resolved  to  hear  something,  she  at  last  said, — '  Miss 
Keeldar  spent  a  day  at  the  Eectory  about  a  week  since.  The 
evening  came  on  very  wintry,  and  we  persuaded  her  to  stay 
all  night.' 


618  SHIRLEY 

'  And  you  and  she  curled  your  hair  together  ?  ' 

4  How  do  you  know  that  ?  ' 

'  And  then  you  chatted  ;  and  she  told  you— 

'  It  was  not  at  curling-hair  time ;  so  you  are  not  as  wise 
as  you  think  :  and  besides,  she  didn't  tell  me.' 

'  You  slept  together  afterwards  ? ' 

1  We  occupied  the  same  room  and  bed.  We  did  not 
sleep  much  :  we  talked  the  whole  night  through.' 

'  I'll  be  sworn  you  did  !  and  then  it  all  came  out— tant 
pis.  I  would  rather  you  had  heard  it  from  myself.' 

1  You  are  quite  wrong  :  she  did  not  tell  me  what  you 
suspect :  she  is  not  the  person  to  proclaim  such  things  ;  but 
yet  I  inferred  something  from  parts  of  her  discourse :  I 
gathered  more  from  rumour,  and  I  made  out  the  rest  by 
instinct.' 

'  But  if  she  did  not  tell  you  that  I  wanted  to  marry  her 
for  the  sake  of  her  money,  and  that  she  refused  me  indig- 
nantly and  scornfully  (you  need  neither  start  nor  blush  ;  nor 
yet  need  you  prick  your  trembling  fingers  with  your  needle : 
that  is  the  plain  truth,  whether  you  like  it  or  not) — if  such 
was  not  the  subject  of  her  august  confidences,  on  what 
point  did  they  turn  ?  You  say  you  talked  the  whole  night 
through  :  what  about  ?  ' 

'  About  things  we  never  thoroughly  discussed  before, 
intimate  friends  as  we  have  been  ;  but  you  hardly  expect  I 
should  tell  you  ?  ' 

1  Yes,  yes,  Gary— you  will  tell  me :  you  said  we  were 
friends  ;  and  friends  should  always  confide  in  each  other.' 

'  But  you  are  sure  you  won't  repeat  it  ?  ' 

1  Quite  sure.' 

1  Not  to  Louis  ? ' 

I  Not  even  to  Louis.     What  does  Louis  care  for  young 
ladies'  secrets  ? ' 

'  Robert — Shirley  is  a  curious,  magnanimous  being.' 

I 1  daresay :  I  can  imagine  there  are  both  odd  points  and 
grand  points  about  her.' 

'  I  have  found  her  chary  in  showing  her  feelings  ;  but 


MATTERS  MAKE   SLOW  PROGRESS        619 

when  they  rush  out,  river-like,  and  pass  full  and  powerful 
before  you, — almost  without  leave  from  her — you  gaze,  you 
wonder,  you  admire,  and — I  think — love  her.' 

'  You  saw  this  spectacle  ? ' 

'  Yes :  at  dead  of  night ;  when  all  the  house  was  silent, 
and  starlight,  and  the  cold  reflection  from  the  snow  glim- 
mered in  our  chamber, — then  I  saw  Shirley's  heart.' 

'Her  heart's  core?  Do  you  think  she  showed  you 
that?' 

'  Her  heart's  core.' 

1  And  how  was  it  ?  ' 

'  Like  a  shrine,—  for  it  was  holy  ;  like  snow, — for  it  was 
pure  ;  like  flume, — for  it  was  warm  ;  like  death,— for  it  was 
strong.' 

'  Can  she  love  ?     Tell  me  that.' 

'  What  think  you  ?  ' 

'  She  has  loved  none  that  have  loved  her  yet.' 

1  Who  are  those  that  have  loved  her  ? ' 

He  named  a  list  of  gentlemen,  closing  with  Sir  Philip 
Nunnely. 

'  She  has  loved  none  of  these.' 

'  Yet  some  of  them  were  worthy  of  a  woman's  affec- 
tion.' 

'  Of  some  women's  ;  hut  not  of  Shirley's.' 

'  Is  she  better  than  others  of  her  sex  ?  ' 

'  She  is  peculiar,  and  more  dangerous  to  take  as  a  wife — 
rashly.' 

'  I  can  imagine  that.' 

'  She  spoke  of  you — 

'  Oh  !  she  did  !     I  thought  you  denied  it.' 

'  She  did  not  speak  in  the  way  you  fancy ;  but  I  asked 
her,  and  I  would  make  her  tell  me  what  she  thought  of  you, 
or  rather,  how  slie  felt  towards  you.  I  wanted  to  know  :  I 
had  long  wanted  to  know.' 

'  Fo  had  I ;  but  let  us  hear  :  she  thinks  meanly — she  feels 
contemptuously,  doubtless? ' 

'  She  thinks  of  you  almost  as  highly  as  a  woman  can 


620  SHIRLEY 

think  of  a  man.  You  know  she  can  be  eloquent :  I  yet  feel 
in  fancy  the  glow  of  the  language  in  which  her  opinion  was 
conveyed.' 

'  But  how  does  she  feel  ?  ' 

'  Till  you  shocked  her  (she  said  you  had  shocked  her,  but 
she  would  not  tell  me  how),  she  felt  as  a  sister  feels  towards 
a  brother  of  whom  she  is  at  once  fond  and  proud.' 

'  I'll  shock  her  no  more,  Gary,  for  the  shock  rebounded 
on  myself  till  I  staggered  again  :  but  that  comparison  about 
sister  and  brother  is  all  nonsense :  she  is  too  rich  and  proud 
to  entertain  fraternal  sentiments  for  me.' 

'  You  don't  know  her,  Robert ;  and  somehow,  I  fancy  now 
(I  had  other  ideas  formerly),  that  you  cannot  know  her :  you 
and  she  are  not  so  constructed  as  to  be  able  thoroughly  to 
understand  each  other.' 

'  It  may  be  so.  I  esteem  her ;  I  admire  her ;  and  yet  my 
impressions  concerning  her  are  harsh — perhaps  uncharitable. 
I  believe,  for  instance,  that  she  is  incapable  of  love ' 

'  Shirley  incapable  of  love  ! ' 

'  That  she  will  never  marry :  I  imagine  her  jealous  of 
compromising  her  pride,  of  relinquishing  her  power,  of 
sharing  her  property.' 

'  Shirley  has  hurt  your  amour-propre.' 

'  She  did  hurt  it — though  I  had  not  an  emotion  of  tender- 
ness, not  a  spark  of  passion  for  her.' 

'  Then,  Robert,  it  was  very  wicked  in  you  to  want  to 
marry  her.' 

'  And  very  mean,  my  little  pastor,  my  pretty  priestess.  I 
never  wanted  to  kiss  Miss  Keeldar  in  my  life,  though  she  has 
tine  lips,  scarlet  and  round,  as  ripe  cherries ;  or,  if  I  did  wish 
it,  it  was  the  mere  desire  of  the  eye.' 

'  I  doubt,  now,  whether  you  are  speaking  the  truth :  the 
grapes  or  the  cherries  are  sour — "  hung  too  high."  ' 

'  She  has  a  pretty  figure,  a  pretty  face,  beautiful  hair :  I 
acknowledge  all  her  charms  and  feel  none  of  them  ;  or  only 
feel  them  in  a  way  she  would  disdain.  I  suppose  I  was  truly 
tempted,  by  the  mere  gilding  of  the  bait.  Caroline,  what  a 


MATTEES   MAKE   SLOW  PROGRESS         621 

noble  fellow  your  Robert  is — great<  good,  disinterested,  and 
then  so  pure  ! ' 

'  But  not  perfect :  he  made  a  great  blunder  once,  and  we 
will  hear  no  more  about  it.' 

'  And  shall  we  think  no  more  about  it,  Gary  ?  Shall  we 
not  despise  hirn  in  our  heart,  gentle  but  just,  compassionate 
but  upright  ? ' 

'  Never !  We  will  remember  that  with  what  measure  we 
mete  it  shall  be  measured  unto  us,  and  so  we  will  give  no 
scorn — only  affection.' 

'  Which  won't  satisfy,  I  warn  you  of  that.  Something 
besides  affection — something  far  stronger,  sweeter,  warmer — 
will  be  demanded  one  day  :  is  it  there  to  give  ?  ' 

Caroline  was  moved— much  moved. 

'  Be  calm,  Lina,'  said  Moore,  soothingly ;  '  I  have  no 
intention,  because  I  have  no  right,  to  perturb  your  mind 
now,  nor  for  months  to  come :  don't  look  as  if  you  would 
leave  me  :  we  will  make  no  more  agitating  allusions :  we 
will  resume  our  gossip.  Do  not  tremble :  look  me  in  the 
face  :  see  what  a  poor,  pale,  grim  phantom  I  am— more 
pitiable  than  formidable.' 

She  looked  shyly.  '  There  is  something  formidable  still, 
pale  as  you  are,'  she  said,  as  her  eye  fell  under  his. 

'  To  return  to  Shirley,'  pursued  Moore ; '  is  it  your  opinion 
that  she  is  ever  likely  to  marry?  ' 

'  She  loves.' 

'  Platonically — theoretically—  all  humbug ! ' 

'  She  loves,  what  I  call,  sincerely.' 

'  Did  she  say  so  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  affirm  that  she  said  so  :  no  such  confession  as, 
I  love  this  man  or  that,  passed  her  lips.' 

'  I  thought  not.' 

'  But  the  feeling  made  its  way  in  spite  of  her,  and  I  saw 
it.  She  spoke  of  one  man  in  a  strain  not  to  be  misunder- 
stood :  her  voice  alone  was  sufficient  testimony.  Having 
wrung  from  her  an  opinion  on  your  character,  I  demanded 
a  second  opinion  of  -  -  another  person  about  whom  I  had 


622  SHIRLEY 

my  conjectures ;  though  they  were  the  most  tangled  and 
puzzled  conjectures  in  the  world.  I  would  make  her 
speak :  I  shook  her,  I  chid  her,  I  pinched  her  fingers 
when  she  tried  to  put  me  off  with  gibes  and  jests  in  her 
queer,  provoking  way,  and  at  last,  out  it  came  :  the  voice,  I 
say,  was  enough ;  hardly  raised  above  a  whisper,  and  yet 
such  a  soft  vehemence  in  its  tones.  There  was  no  confes- 
sion— no  confidence  in  the  matter :  to  these  things  she 
cannot  condescend ;  but  I  am  sure  that  man's  happiness  is 
dear  to  her  as  her  own  life.' 

1  Who  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  charged  her  with  the  fact ;  she  did  not  deny ;  she  did 
not  avow,  but  looked  at  me  :  I  saw  her  eyes  by  the  snow- 
gleam.  It  was  quite  enough :  I  triumphed  over  her 
mercilessly.' 

'  What  right  had  you  to  triumph  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  are  fancy-free  ?  ' 

'  Whatever  /  am,  Shirley  is  a  bondswoman.  Lioness  ! 
She  has  found  her  captor.  Mistress  she  may  be  of  all  round 
her — but  her  own  mistress  she  is  not.' 

'  So  you  exulted  at  recognising  a  fellow-slave  in  one  so 
fair  and  imperial  ?  ' 

'  I  did ;  Robert,  you  say  right,  in  one  so  fair  and 
imperial.' 

'  You  confess  it — a/eZZow-slave  ?  ' 

'  I  confess  nothing  ;  but  I  say  that  haughty  Shirley  is  no 
more  free  than  was  Hagar.' 

'  And  who,  pray,  is  the  Abraham  :  the  hero  of  a  patriarch 
who  has  achieved  such  a  conquest  ? ' 

'  You  still  speak  scornfully,  and  cynically,  and  sorely ; 
but  I  will  make  you  change  your  note  before  I  have  done 
with  you.' 

1  We  will  see  that :  can  she  marry  this  Cupidon  ?  ' 

'  Cupidon !  he  is  just  about  as  much  a  Cupidon  as  you 
are  a  Cyclops.' 

1  Can  she  marry  him  ?  ' 

'  You  will  see.' 


MATTERS  MAKE  SLOW  PROGRESS        623 

'  I  want  to  know  his  name,  Gary.' 

'  Guess  it.' 

'  Is  it  any  one  in  this  neighbourhood  ? ' 

'  Yes,  in  Briarficld  parish.' 

'  Then  it  is  some  person  unworthy  of  her.  I  don't  know 
a  soul  in  Briarfield  parish  her  equal.' 

'  Guess.' 

'  Impossible.  I  suppose  she  is  under  a  delusion,  and 
will  plunge  into  some  absurdity  after  all.' 

Caroline  smiled. 

'  Do  you  approve  the  choice  ? '  asked  Moore. 

'  Quite,  quite.' 

'  Then  I  am  puzzled ;  for  the  head  which  owns  this 
bounteous  fall  of  hazel  curls  is  an  excellent  little  thinking 
machine,  most  accurate  in  its  working  :  it  boasts  a  correct, 
steady  judgment,  inherited  from  "  mamma,"  I  suppose.' 

1  And  I  quite  approve,  and  mamma  was  charmed.' 

'  "  Mamma  "  charmed !  Mrs.  Pryor !  It  can't  be  romantic, 
then  ? ' 

'  It  is  romantic,  but  it  is  also  right.' 

'  Tell  me,  Gary.  Tell  me  out  of  pity  :  I  am  too  weak  to 
be  tantalized.' 

1  You  shall  be  tantalized :  it  will  do  you  no  harm  :  you 
are  not  so  weak  as  you  pretend.' 

'  I  have  twice  this  evening  had  some  thoughts  of  falling 
on  the  floor  at  your  feet.' 

'  You  hud  better  not :  I  shall  decline  to  help  you 
up.' 

'  And  worshipping  you  downright.  My  mother  was  a 
Roman  Catholic ;  you  look  like  the  loveliest  of  her  pictoes 
of  the  Virgin  :  I  think  I  will  embrace  her  faith,  and  kneel 
and  adore.' 

'  Robert,  Robert,  sit  still ;  don't  be  absurd  :  I  will  go  to 
Hortense,  if  you  commit  extravagances.' 

'  You  have  stolen  my  senses  :  just  now  nothing  will 
come  into  my  mind  but  "  les  litanies  de  la  sainte  Vierge. 
Rose  celeste,  reine  des  Anges  !  " 


624  SHIRLEY 

1  "  Tour  d'ivoire,  maison  d'or  :  "  is  not  that  the  jargon  ? 
Well,  sit  down  quietly,  and  guess  your  riddle.' 

1  But,  "  mamma  "  charmed  !     There's  the  puzzle.' 

1  I'll  tell  you  what  mamma  said  when  I  told  her : 
"  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear,  such  a  choice  will  make  the 
happiness  of  Miss  Keeldar's  life." ' 

'  I'll  guess  once,  and  no  more.  It  is  old  Helstone.  She 
is  going  to  be  your  aunt.' 

1  I'll  tell  my  uncle ;  I'll  tell  Shirley  !  '  cried  Caroline, 
laughing  gleefully.  '  Guess  again,  Robert ;  your  blunders 
are  charming.' 

'  It  is  the  parson,  Hall.' 

'  Indeed,  no  :  he  is  mine,  if  you  please.' 

'  Yours  !  Ay !  the  whole  generation  of  women  in  Briar- 
field  seem  to  have  made  an  idol  of  that  priest :  I  wonder 
why  :  he  is  bald,  sand-blind,  grey-haired.' 

'  Fanny  will  be  here  to  fetch  me,  before  you  have  solved 
the  riddle,  if  you  don't  make  haste.' 

'  I'll  guess  no  more,  I  am  tired  :  and  then  I  don't  care. 
Miss  Keeldar  may  marry  "  le  grand  Turc  "  for  me.' 

'  Must  I  whisper  ?  ' 

'  That  you  must,  and  quickly  :  here  comes  Hortense ; 
come  near,  a  little  nearer,  my  own  Lina :  I  care  for  the 
whisper  more  than  the  words.' 

She  whispered  :  Robert  gave  a  start,  a  flash  of  the  eye, 
a  brief  laugh  :  Miss  Moore  entered,  and  Sarah  followed 
behind,  with  information  that  Fanny  was  come.  The  hour 
of  converse  was  over. 

Robert  found  a  moment  to  exchange  a  few  more  whis- 
pered sentences  :  he  was  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase, 
as  Caroline  descended  after  putting  on  her  shawl. 

'  Must  I  call  Shirley  a  noble  creature  now  ? '  he  asked. 

'  If  you  wish  to  speak  the  truth,  certainly.' 

'  Must  I  forgive  her  ?  ' 

'  Forgive  her  ?  Naughty  Robert !  Was  she  in  the 
wrong,  or  were  you  ?  ' 

1  Must  I  at  length  love  her  downright,  Gary?  ' 


MATTERS   MAKE   SLOW  PROGRESS        625 

Caroline  looked  keenly  up,  and  made  a  movement 
towards  him,  something  between  the  loving  and  the 
petulant. 

'  Only  give  the  word,  and  I'll  try  to  obey  you.' 

'  Indeed,  you  must  not  love  her :  the  bare  idea  is 
perverse.' 

But  then  she  is  handsome,  peculiarly  handsome  :  hers 
is  a  beauty  that  grows  on  you  :  you  think  her  but  graceful, 
when  you  first  see  her;  you  discover  her  to  be  beautiful, 
when  you  have  known  her  for  a  year.' 

'  It  is  not  you  who  are  to  say  these  things.  Now, 
Robert,  be  good.' 

'  Oh !  Gary,  I  have  no  love  to  give.  Were  the  goddess 
of  beauty  to  woo  me,  I  could  not  meet  her  advances :  there 
is  no  heart  which  I  can  call  mine  in  this  breast.' 

'  So  much  the  better :  you  are  a  great  deal  safer  with- 
out :  good-night.' 

'  Why  must  you  always  go,  Lina,  at  the  very  instant 
when  I  most  want  you  to  stay  ?  ' 

'  Because  you  most  wish  to  retain  when  you  are  most 
certain  to  lose.' 

'  Listen  ;  one  other  word.  Take  care  of  your  own  heart  : 
do  you  hear  me  ?  ' 

'  There  is  no  danger.' 

'  I  am  not  convinced  of  that :  the  Platonic  parson,  for 
instance.' 

'Who?     Malone?' 

'  Cyril  Hall :  I  owe  more  than  one  twinge  of  jealousy  to 
that  quarter.' 

1  As  to  you,  you  have  been  flirting  with  Miss  Mann :  she 
showed  me  the  other  day  a  plant  you  had  given  her. — 
F'  I  am  ready.' 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

WRITTEN   IN   THE    SCHOOLROOM 

Louis  MOORE'S  doubts,  respecting  the  immediate  evacuation 
of  Fieldhead  by  Mr.  Sympson,  turned  out  to  be  perfectly 
well  founded.  The  very  next  day  after  the  grand  quarrel 
about  Sir  Philip  Nunnely,  a  sort  of  reconciliation  was 
patched  up  between  uncle  and  niece :  Shirley,  who  could 
never  find  it  in  her  heart  to  be  or  to  seem  inhospitable 
(except  in  the  single  instance  of  Mr.  Donne),  begged  the 
whole  party  to  stay  a  little  longer :  she  begged  in  such 
earnest,  it  was  evident  she  wished  it,  for  some  reason.  They 
took  her  at  her  word  :  indeed,  the  uncle  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  leave  her  quite  uuwatched — at  full  liberty  to  marry 
Robert  Moore,  as  soon  as  that  gentleman  should  be  able 
(Mr.  Sympson  piously  prayed  this  might  never  be  the  case) 
to  reassert  his  supposed  pretensions  to  her  hand.  They  all 
stayed. 

In  his  first  rage  against  all  the  house  of  Moore,  Mr. 
Sympson  had  so  conducted  himself  towards  Mr.  Louis,  that 
that  gentleman — patient  of  labour  or  suffering,  but  intolerant 
of  coarse  insolence — had  promptly  resigned  his  post,  and 
could  now  be  induced  to  resume  and  retain  it  only  till  such 
time  as  the  family  should  quit  Yorkshire :  Mrs.  Symp- 
son's  entreaties  prevailed  with  him  thus  far ;  his  own 
attachment  to  his  pupil  constituted  an  additional  motive  for 
concession  ;  and  probably  he  had  a  third  motive,  stronger 
than  either  of  the  other  two :  probably  he  would  have  found 
it  very  hard  indeed  to  leave  Fieldhead  just  now. 


WRITTEN   IN   THE  SCHOOLROOM          627 

Things  went  on,  for  some  time,  pretty  smoothly ;  Miss 
Keeldar's  health  was  re-established;  her  spirits  resumed 
their  flow  :  Moore  had  found  means  to  relieve  her  from  every 
nervous  apprehension ;  and,  indeed,  from  the  moment  of 
giving  him  her  confidence,  every  fear  seemed  to  have  taken 
wing:  her  heart  became  as  lightsome,  her  manner  as  care- 
less, as  those  of  a  little  child,  that,  thoughtless  of  its  own 
life  or  death,  trusts  all  responsibility  to  its  parents.  He  and 
William  Farren — through  whose  medium  he  made  inquiries 
concerning  the  state  of  Phoebe — agreed  in  asserting  that  the 
dog  was  not  mad :  that  it  was  only  ill-usage  which  had 
driven  her  from  home :  for  it  was  proved  that  her  master 
was  in  the  frequent  habit  of  chastising  her  violently.  Their 
assertion  might,  or  might  not,  be  true  :  the  groom  and  game- 
keeper affirmed  to  the  contrary  ;  both  asserting  that,  if  hers 
was  not  a  clear  case  of  hydrophobia,  there  was  no  such 
disease.  But  to  this  evidence  Louis  Moore  turned  an  in- 
credulous ear :  he  reported  to  Shirley  only  what  was  en- 
couraging :  she  believed  him  ;  and,  right  or  wrong,  it  ia 
certain  that  in  her  case  the  bite  proved  innocuous. 

November  passed ;  December  came  :  the  Sympsons  were 
now  really  departing ;  it  was  incumbent  on  them  to  be  at 
home  by  Christmas  ;  their  packages  were  preparing ;  they 
were  to  leave  in  a  few  days.  One  winter  evening,  during 
the  last  week  of  their  stay,  Louis  Moore  again  took  out  his 
little  blank  book,  and  discoursed  with  it  as  follows  : — 


'  She  is  lovelier  than  ever.  Since  that  little  cloud  was  dis- 
pelled, all  the  temporary  waste  and  wanness  have  vanished. 
It  was  marvellous  to  see  how  soon  the  magical  energy 
of  youth  raised  her  elastic,  and  revived  her  blooming. 

'  After  breakfast  this  morning,  when  I  had  seen  her,  and 
listened  to  her,  and — so  to  speak  — felt  her,  in  every  sentient 
atom  of  my  frame,  I  passed  from  her  sunny  presence  into 
the  chill  drawing-room.  Taking  up  a  little  gilt  volume,  I 
found  it  to  contain  a  selection  of  lyrics.  I  n  t:d  a  poem  or 


628  SHIRLEY 

two  :  whether  the  spell  was  in  me  or  in  the  verse,  I  know  not, 
but  my  heart  filled  genially — my  pulse  rose  :  I  glowed,  not- 
withstanding the  frosty  air.  I,  too,  am  young  as  yet :  though 
she  said  she  never  considered  me  young,  I  am  barely  thirty  : 
there  are  moments  when  life — for  no  other  reason  than  my 
own  youth — beams  with  sweet  hues  upon  me. 

'  It  was  time  to  go  to  the  schoolroom  :  I  went.  That 
same  schoolroom  is  rather  pleasant  in  a  morning ;  the  sun 
then  shines  through  the  low  lattice ;  the  books  are  in  order : 
there  are  no  papers  strewn  about ;  the  fire  is  clear  and  clean ; 
no  cinders  have  fallen,  no  ashes  accumulated.  I  found 
Henry  there,  and  he  had  brought  with  him  Miss  Keeldar : 
they  were  together. 

'  I  said  she  was  lovelier  than  ever  :  she  is.  A  fine  rose, 
not  deep  but  delicate,  opens  on  her  cheek ;  her  eye,  always 
dark,  clear,  and  speaking,  utters  now  a  language  I  cannot 
render — it  is  the  utterance,  seen  not  heard,  through  which 
angels  must  have  communed  when  there  was  "  silence  in 
heaven."  Her  hair  was  always  dusk  as  night,  and  fine  as 
silk;  her  neck  was  always  fair,  flexible,  polished — but  both 
have  now  a  new  charm  :  the  tresses  are  soft  as  shadow,  the 
shoulders  they  fall  on  wear  a  goddess-grace.  Once  I  only 
saw  her  beauty,  now  I  feel  it. 

1  Henry  was  repeating  his  lesson  to  her  before  bringing 
it  to  me — one  of  her  hands  was  occupied  with  the  book, 
he  held  the  other :  that  boy  gets  more  than  his  share  of 
privileges  ;  he  dares  caress  and  is  caressed.  What  indul- 
gence and  compassion  she  shows  him  !  Too  much  :  if  this 
went  on,  Henry,  in  a  few  years,  when  his  soul  was  formed, 
would  offer  it  on  her  altar,  as  I  have  offered  mine. 

'  I  saw  her  eyelid  flitter  when  I  came  in,  but  she  did  not 
look  up :  now  she  hardly  ever  gives  me  a  glance.  She 
seems  to  grow  silent,  too— to  me  she  rarely  speaks,  and, 
when  I  am  present,  she  says  little  to  others.  In  my  gloomy 
moments,  I  attribute  this  change  to  indifference, — aversion, 
— what  not?  In  my  sunny  intervals  I  give  it  another  mean- 
ing :  I  say,  were  I  her  equal,  I  could  find  in  this  shyness— 


WBITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM         629 

coyness,  and  in  that  coyness — love.     As  it  is,  dare  I  look 
for  it  ?     What  could  I  do  with  it,  if  found  ? 

'  This  morning  I  dared,  at  least,  contrive  an  hour's  com- 
munion for  her  and  me  ;  I  dared  not  only  wish — but  will  an 
interview  with  her :  I  dared  summon  solitude  to  guard  us. 
Very  decidedly  I  called  Henry  to  the  door :  without  hesita- 
tion, I  said,  "  Go  where  you  will,  my  boy  ;  but,  till  I  call 
you,  return  not  here." 

I  Henry,  I  could  see,  did  not  like  his  dismissal :  that  boy 
is  young,  but  a  thinker :  his  meditative  eye  shines  on  me 
strangely  sometimes :    he    half    feels    what    links    me    to 
Shirley ;  he  half  guesses  that  there  is  a  dearer  delight  in  the 
reserve  with  which  I  am  treated,  than  in  all  the  endearments 
he   is   allowed.      The  young,  lame,  half-grown  lion  would 
growl  at  me  now  and  then,  because  I  have  tamed  his  lioness 
and  am  her  keeper,  did  not  the  habit  of  discipline  and  the 
instinct  of  affection  hold  him  subdued.     Go,  Henry ;  you 
must  learn  to  take  your  share  of  the  bitter  of  life  with  all  of 
Adam's  race  that  have  gone  before,  or  will  come  after  you  : 
your  destiny  can  be  no  exception  to  the  common  lot :  be 
grateful  that  your  love  is  overlooked  thus  early,  before  it 
can  claim  any  affinity  to  passion  :  an  hour's  fret,  a  pang  of 
envy,  suffice  to  express  what  you  feel :  Jealousy,  hot  as  the 
sun  above  the  line,  Rage,  destructive  as  the  tropic  storm,  the 
clime  of  your  sensations  ignores— as  yet. 

I 1  took  my  usual  seat  at  the  desk,  quite  in  my  usual 
way :    I   am    blessed   in   that  power   to   cover   all   inward 
ebullition   with  outward  calm.     No  one  who  looks  at  my 
slow   face   can    guess   the    vortex    sometimes   whirling    in 
my  heart,  and  engulfing  thought,  and  wrecking  prudence. 
Pleasant  is  it  to  have  the  gift  to  proceed  peacefully  and 
powerfully  in  your  course  without  alarming  by  one  eccentric 
movement.     It  was  not  my  present  intention  to  utter  one 
word  of  love  to  her,  or  to  reveal  one  glimpse  of  the  fire  in 
which  I  waited.     Presumptuous,  I  never  have  been  ;  pre- 
sumptuous, I   never  will  be  :  rather  than  even  seem  selfish 
and  interested.  I  would  resolutely  rise,  gird  my  loins,  part 


630  SHIRLEY 

and  leave  her,  and  seek,  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe,  a 
new  life,  cold  and  barren  as  the  rock  the  salt  tide  daily 
washes.  My  design  this  morning  was  to  take  of  her  a  near 
scrutiny — to  read  a  line  in  the  page  of  her  heart ;  before  I 
left,  I  determined  to  know  what  I  was  leaving. 

'  I  had  some  quills  to  make  into  pens  :  most  men's  hands 
would  have  trembled  when  their  hearts  were  so  stirred; 
mine  went  to  work  steadily,  and  my  voice,  when  I  called  it 
into  exercise,  was  firm. 

'  "  This  day  week  you  will  be  alone  at  Fieldhead,  Miss 
Keeldar." 

'"Yes:  I  rather  think  my  uncle's  intention  to  go  is  a 
settled  one  now." 

'  "  He  leaves  you  dissatisfied." 

'  "  He  is  not  pleased  with  me." 

'"He  departs  as  he  came—  no  better  for  his  journey : 
this  is  mortifying." 

'  "  I  trust  the  failure  of  his  plans  will  take  from  him  all 
inclination  to  lay  new  ones." 

' "  In  his  way,  Mr.  Sympson  honestly  wished  you  well. 
All  he  has  done,  or  intended  to  do,  he  believed  to  be  for  the 
best." 

' "  You  are  kind  to  undertake  the  defence  of  a  man  who 
has  permitted  himself  to  treat  you  with  so  much  insolence." 

' "  I  never  feel  shocked  at,  or  bear  malice  for,  what  is 
spoken  in  character ;  and  most  perfectly  in  character  was  that 
vulgar  and  violent  onset  against  me,  when  he  had  quitted 
you  worsted." 

'  "  You  cease  now  to  be  Henry's  tutor  ?  " 

'  "  I  shall  be  parted  from  Henry  for  a  while — (if  he  and  I 
live  we  shall  meet  again  somehow,  for  we  love  each  other) — 
and  be  ousted  from  the  bosom  of  the  Sympson  family  for 
ever.  Happily  this  change  does  not  leave  me  stranded :  it 
but  hurries  into  premature  execution  designs  long  formed." 

'  "  No  change  finds  you  off  your  guard  :  I  was  sure,  in 
your  calm  way,  you  wouM  be  prepared  for  sudden  mutation. 
I  always  think  you  stand  in  the  world  like  a  solitary  but 


631 

watchful,  thoughtful  archer  in  a  wood ;  and  the  quiver  on 
your  shoulder  holds  more  arrows  than  one ;  your  bow  is 
provided  with  a  second  string.  Such  too  is  your  brother's 
wont.  You  two  might  go  forth  homeless  hunters  to  the 
loneliest  western  wilds ;  all  would  be  well  with  you.  The 
hewn  tree  would  make  you  a  hut,  the  cleared  forest  yield 
you  fields  from  its  stripped  bosom,  the  buffalo  would  feel 
your  rifle-shot,  and  with  lowered  horns  and  hump  pay 
homage  at  your  feet." 

1 "  And  any  Indian  tribe  of  Black-feet,  or  Flat-heads, 
would  afford  us  a  bride,  perhaps  ?  " 

1 "  No  "  (hesitating) :  "  I  think  not.  The  savage  is  sordid: 
I  think, — that  is,  I  Jiope, — you  would  neither  of  you  share  your 
hearth  with  that  to  which  you  could  not  give  your  heart." 

' "  What  suggested  the  wild  West  to  your  mind,  Miss 
Keeldar  ?  Have  you  been  with  me  in  spirit  when  I  did  not 
see  you  ?  Have  you  entered  into  my  day-dreams,  and  beheld 
my  brain  labouring  at  its  scheme  of  a  future." 

'  She  had  separated  a  slip  of  paper  for  lighting  tapers — a 
spill,  as  it  is  called — into  fragments :  she  threw  morsel  by 
morsel  into  the  fire,  and  stood  pensively  watching  them 
consume.  She  did  not  speak. 

'  "  How  did  you  learn  what  you  seem  to  know  about  my 
intentions?" 

'  "  I  know  nothing  :  I  am  only  discovering  them  now  :  I 
spoke  at  hazard." 

'  "  Your  hazard  sounds  like  divination.  A  tutor  I  will 
never  be  again  :  never  take  a  pupil  after  Henry  and  your- 
self :  no  I  again  will  I  sit  habitually  at  another  man's  table — 
no  more  be  the  appendage  of  a  family.  I  am  now  a  man  of 
thirty :  I  have  never  been  free  since  I  was  a  boy  of  ten.  I 
have  such  a  thirst  for  freedom — such  a  deep  passion  to  know 
her  and  call  her  mine— such  a  day-desire  and  night-longing 
to  win  her  and  possess  her,  I  will  not  refuse  to  cross  the 
Atlantic  for  her  sake :  her  I  will  follow  deep  into  virgin 
woods.  Mine  it  shall  not  be  to  accept  a  savage  girl  as  a 
slave  -she  could  not  be  a  v.ife.  I  know  no  white  woman 


632  SHIRLEY 

whom  I  love  that  would  accompany  me ;  but  I  am  certain 
Liberty  will  await  me,  sitting  under  a  pine  :  when  I  call  her 
she  will  come  to  my  log-house,  and  she  shall  fill  my  arms." 

'  She  could  not  hear  me  speak  so  unmoved,  and  she  was 
moved.  It  \vas  right—  I  meant  to  move  her.  She  could  not 
answer  me,  nor  could  she  look  at  me :  I  should  have  been 
sorry  if  she  could  have  done  either.  Her  cheek  glowed  as  if 
a  crimson  flower,  through  whose  petals  the  sun  shone,  had 
cast  its  light  upon  it.  On  the  white  lid  and  dark  lashes  of 
her  downcast  eye,  trembled  all  that  is  graceful  in  the  sense 
of  half-painful,  half-pleasing  shame. 

'  Soon  she  controlled  her  emotion,  and  took  all  her  feel- 
ings under  command.  I  saw  she  had  felt  insurrection,  and 
was  waking  to  empire — she  sat  down.  There  was  that  in 
her  face  which  I  could  read  :  it  said,  I  see  the  line  which  is 
my  limit — nothing  shall  make  me  pass  it.  I  feel  —I  know 
how  far  I  may  reveal  my  feelings,  and  when  I  must  clasp 
the  volume.  I  have  advanced  to  a  certain  distance,  as  far  as 
the  true  and  sovereign  and  undegraded  nature  of  my  kind 
permits—  now  here  I  stand  rooted.  My  heart  may  break  if 
it  is  baffled :  let  it  break — it  shall  never  dishonour  me — it 
shall  never  dishonour  my  sisterhood  in  me.  Suffering  before 
degradation  !  death  before  treachery ! 

'I,  for  my  part,  said,  "If  she  were  poor,  I  would  be  at 
her  feet.  If  she  were  lowly,  I  would  take  her  in  my  arms. 
Her  Gold  and  her  Station  are  two  griffins,  that  guard  her  on 
each  side.  Love  looks  and  longs,  and  dares  not :  Passion 
hovers  round,  and  is  kept  at  bay :  Truth  and  Devotion  are 
scared.  There  is  nothing  to  lose  in  winning  her — no  sacri- 
fice to  make — it  is  all  clear  gain,  and  therefore  unimaginably 
difficult." 

'  Difficult  or  not,  something  must  be  done ;  something 
must  be  said.  I  could  not,  and  would  not,  sit  silent  with  all 
that  beauty  mode.stly  mute  in  my  presence.  I  spoke  thus, 
and  still  I  spoke  with  calm  :  quiet  as  my  words  were,  I  could 
hear  they  fell  in  a  tone  distinct,  round,  and  deep. 

'  "  Still,  I  know  I  shall  be  strangely  placed  with  that 


633 

mountain  nymph,  Liberty.  She  is,  I  suspect,  akin  to  that 
Solitude  which  I  once  wooed,  and  from  which  I  now  seek  a 
divorce.  These  Oreads  are  peculiar :  they  come  upon  you 
with  an  unearthly  charm,  like  some  starlight  evening ;  they 
inspire  a  wild  but  not  warm  delight;  their  beauty  is  the 
beauty  of  spirits  :  their  grace  is  not  the  grace  of  life,  but  of 
seasons  or  scenes  in  Nature :  theirs  is  the  dewy  bloom  of 
morning — the  languid  flush  of  evening — the  peace  of  the 
moon — the  changefulness  of  clouds.  I  want  and  will  have 
something  different.  This  elfish  splendour  looks  chill  to  my 
vision,  and 'feels  frozen  to  rny  touch.  I  am  not  a  poet:  I 
cannot  live  with  abstractions.  You,  Miss  Keeldar,  have 
sometimes,  in  your  laughing  satire,  called  me  a  material 
philosopher,  and  implied  that  I  live  sufficiently  for  the  sub- 
stantial. Certainly  I  feel  material  from  head  to  foot ;  and 
glorious  as  Nature  is,  and  deeply  as  I  worship  her  with  the 
solid  powers  of  a  solid  heart,  I  would  rather  behold  her 
through  the  soft  human  eyes  of  a  loved  and  lovely  wife, 
than  through  the  wild  orbs  of  the  highest  goddess  of 
Olympus." 

'  "  Juno  could  not  cook  a  buffalo  steak  as  you  like  it," 
said  she. 

'  "  She  could  not :  but  I  will  tell  you  who  could — some 
young,  penniless,  friendless  orphan  girl.  I  wish  I  could  find 
such  a  one  :  pretty  enough  for  me  to  love,  with  something 
of  the  mind  and  heart  suited  to  my  taste  :  not  uneducated — 
honest  and  modest.  I  care  nothing  for  attainments  ;  but  I 
would  fain  have  the  germ  of  those  sweet  natural  powers  which 
nothing  acquired  can  rival  :  any  temper  Fate  wills, — I  can 
manage  the  hottest.  To  such  a  creature  as  this,  I  should 
like  to  be  first  tutor  and  then  husband.  I  would  teach  her 
my  language,  my  habits,  and  my  principles,  and  then  I 
would  reward  her  with  my  love." 

'  "  Reward  her  !  lord  of  the  creation  !  Reward  her  1  " 
ejaculated  she,  with  a  curled  lip. 

'  "  And  be  repaid  a  thousandfold." 

'  "  If  she  willed  it,  Monscigneur  ' 


634  SHIRLEY 

1 "  And  she  should  will  it." 

1 "  You   have   stipulated    for    any   temper    Fate    wills. 
Compulsion  is  flint  and  a  blow  to  the  metal  of  some  souls." 
"  And  love  the  spark  it  elicits." 

1  "  Who  cares  for  the  love  that  is  but  a  spark — seen, 
flown  upward,  and  gone?  " 

' "  I  must  find  my  orphan  girl.  Tell  me  how,  Miss 
Keeldar." 

' "  Advertise :  and  be  sure  you  add,  when  you  describe 
the  qualifications,  she  must  be  a  good  plain  cook." 

'"I  must  find  her;  and  when  I  do  find  her,  I  shall 
marry  her." 

' "  Not  you !  "  and  her  voice  took  a  sudden  accent  of 
peculiar  scorn. 

'  I  liked  this :  I  had  roused  her  from  the  pensive  mood 
in  which  I  had  first  found  her :  I  would  stir  her  further. 

'"Why  doubt  it?" 

' "  You  marry !  " 

'  "  Yes, — of  course :  nothing  more  evident  than  that  I 
can,  and  shall." 

'  "The  contrary  is  evident,  Mr.  Moore." 

'  She  charmed  me  in  this  mood  :  waxing  disdainful,  half 
insulting,  pride,  temper,  derision,  blent  in  her  large  fine  eye, 
that  had,  just  now,  the  look  of  a  merlin's. 

' "  Favour  me  with  your  reasons  for  such  an  opinion, 
Miss  Keeldar." 

'  "  How  will  you  manage  to  marry,  I  wonder  ?  " 

'  "  I  shall  manage  it  with  ease  and  speed  when  I  find  the 
proper  person." 

'  "  Accept  celibacy  !  "  (and  she  made  a  gesture  with  her 
hand  as  if  she  gave  me  something)  ;  "  take  it  as  your 
doom  !  " 

'  "  No  :  you  cannot  give  what  I  already  have.  Celibacy 
has  been  mine  for  thirty  years.  If  you  wish  to  offer  me  a 
gift,  a  parting  present,  a  keepsake,  you  must  change  the 
boon." 

1 "  Take  worse,  then  !  " 


WRITTEN   IN   THE  SCHOOLROOM          635 

'  "  How  ?     What  ?  " 

'  I  now  felt,  and  looked,  and  spoke  eagerly.  I  was  unwise 
to  quit  my  sheet-anchor  of  calm  even  for  an  instant :  it 
deprived  me  of  an  advantage  and  transferred  it  to  her.  The 
little  spark  of  temper  dissolved  in  sarcasm,  and  eddied  over 
her  countenance  in  the  ripples  of  a  mocking  smile. 

1  "  Take  a  wife  that  has  paid  you  court  to  save  your 
modesty,  and  thrust  herself  upon  you  to  spare  your 
scruples." 

'  "  Only  show  me  where." 

' "  Any  stout  widow  that  has  had  a  few  husbands  already, 
and  can  manage  these  things." 

'  "  She  must  not  be  rich  then.     Oh  these  riches  !  " 

1 "  Never  would  you  have  gathered  the  produce  of  the 
gold-bearing  garden.  You  have  not  courage  to  confront  the 
sleepless  dragon  :  you  have  not  craft  to  borrow  the  aid  of 
Atlas !  " 

'  "  You  look  hot  and  haughty." 

'  "  And  you  far  haughtier.  Yours  is  the  monstrous  pride 
which  counterfeits  humility." 

'  "  I  am  a  dependent :  I  know  my  place." 

' "  I  am  a  woman  :  I  know  mine." 

' "  I  am  poor  :  I  must  be  proud." 

' "  I  have  received  ordinances,  and  own  obligations 
stringent  as  yours." 

'  We  had  reached  a  critical  point  now,  and  we  halted  and 
looked  at  each  other.  She  would  not  give  in,  I  felt.  Beyond 
this,  I  neither  felt  nor  saw.  A  few  moments  yet  were  mine  : 
the  end  was  coming — I  heard  its  rush — but  not  come ;  I 
would  dally,  wait,  talk,  and  when  impulse  urged,  I  would 
act.  I  am  never  in  a  hurry :  I  never  was  in  a  hurry  in  my 
whole  life.  Hasty  people  drink  the  nectar  of  existence 
scalding  hot :  I  taste  it  cool  as  dew.  I  proceeded  :— 
"  Apparently,  Miss  Keeldar,  you  are  as  little  likely  to  marry 
as  myself :  I  know  you  have  refused  three,  nay,  four  advan- 
tageous offers,  and,  I  believe,  a  fifth.  Have  you  rejected  Sir 
Philip  Nunnely?" 


636  SHIELEY 

'  I  put  this  question  suddenly  and  promptly. 

'  "  Did  you  think  I  should  take  him  ?  " 

1 "  I  thought  you  might." 

'  "  On  what  grounds,  may  I  ask?  " 

'  "  Conformity  of  rank  ;  age  ;  pleasing  contrast  of  temper, 
for  lie  is  mild  and  amiable  ;  harmony  of  intellectual  tastes." 

'  "  A  beautiful  sentence  !  Let  us  take  it  to  pieces.  '  Con- 
formity of  rank.' — He  is  quite  above  me  :  compare  my  grange 
with  his  palace,  if  you  please :  I  am  disdained  by  his  kith 
and  kiu.  '  Suitability  of  age.' — We  were  born  in  the  same 
year ;  consequently,  he  is  still  a  boy,  while  I  am  a  woman  : 
ten  years  his  senior  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  '  Contrast 

of  temper.' — Mild  and  amiable,  is  he  :  I what  ?  Tell 

me." 

'  "  Sister  of  the  spotted,  bright,  quick,  fiery  leopard." 

'  "  And  you  would  mate  me  with  a  kid — the  Millennium 
being  yet  millions  of  centuries  from  mankind  ;  being  yet, 
indeed,  an  archangel  high  in  the  seventh  heaven,  uncom- 
missioned to  descend ?  Unjust  barbarian  !  '  Harmony 

of  intellectual  tastes.' — He  is  fond  of  poetry,  and  I  hate 
it— 

'  "  Do  you  ?    That  is  news." 

1 "  I  absolutely  shudder  at  the  sight  of  metre  or  at  the 
sound  of  rhyme,  whenever  I  am  at  the  Priory  or  Sir  Philip 
at  Fieldhead.  Harmony,  indeed  !  When  did  I  whip  up 
syllabub  sonnets,  or  string  stanzas  fragile  as  fragments  of 
glass  ?  and  when  did  I  betray  a  belief  that  those  penny-beads 
were  genuine  brilliants?  " 

'  "  You  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  leading  him  to  a 
higher  standard—  of  improving  his  tastes." 

'  "  Leading  and  improving  !  teaching  and  tutoring  !  bear- 
ing and  forbearing  !  Pah  !  My  husband  is  not  to  be  my 
baby.  I  am  not  to  set  him  his  daily  lesson  and  see  that  he 
learns  it,  and  give  him  a  sugar-plum  if  he  is  good,  and  a 
patient,  pensive,  pathetic  lecture  if  he  is  bad.  But  it  is  like 
a  tutor  to  talk  of  the  '  satisfaction  of  teaching  ' — I  suppose 
you  think  it  the  finest  employment  in  the  world.  I  don't — • 


WKITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM         637 

I  reject  it.  Improving  a  husband !  No.  I  shall  insist  upon 
my  husband  improving  me,  or  else  we  part." 

' "  God  knows  it  is  needed  !  " 

' "  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Moore  ?  " 

'  "  What  I  say.     Improvement  is  imperatively  needed." 

1 "  If  you  were  a  woman  you  would  school  Monsieur  votre 
mari  charmingly  :  it  would  just  suit  you  ;  schooling  is  your 
vocation." 

'  "  May  I  ask  whether,  in  your  present  just  and  gentle 
mood,  you  mean  to  taunt  me  with  being  a  tutor  ?  " 

' "  Yes — bitterly  ;  and  with  anything  else  you  please  :  any 
defect  of  which  you  are  painfully  conscious." 

' "  With  being  poor,  for  instance  ?  " 

'"Of  course ;  that  will  sting  you ;  you  are  sore  about 
your  poverty  :  you  brood  over  that." 

'  "  With  having  nothing  but  a  very  plain  person  to  offer 
the  woman  who  may  master  my  heart?  " 

'  "  Exactly.  You  have  a  habit  of  calling  yourself  plain. 
You  are  sensitive  about  the  cut  of  your  features,  because 
they  are  not  quite  on  an  Apollo  pattern.  You  abuse  them 
more  than  is  needful,  in  the  faint  hope  that  others  may  say 
a  word  in  their  behalf — which  won't  happen.  Your  face  is 
nothing  to  boast  of,  certainly  :  not  a  pretty  line,  nor  a  pretty 
tint,  to  be  found  therein," 

'  "  Compare  it  with  your  own." 

1  "  It  looks  like  a  god  of  Egypt :  a  great  sand-buried 
stone  head,  or  rather  I  will  compare  it  to  nothing  so  lofty : 
it  looks  like  Tartar  :  you  are  my  mastiff's  cousin  :  I  think 
you  as  much  like  him  as  a  man  can  be  like  a  dog." 

'"Tartar  is  your  dear  companion.  In  summer,  when 
you-rise  early,  and  run  out  into  the  fields  to  wet  your  feet 
with  the  dew,  and  freshen  your  cheek  and  uncurl  your  hair 
with  the  bree/e,  you  always  call  him  to  follow  you  :  you 
call  him  sometimes  with  a  whistle  that  you  learned  from 
me.  In  the  solitude  of  your  wood,  when  you  think  nobody 
but  Tartar  is  listening,  you  whistle  the  very  tunes  you 
imitated  from  my  lips,  or  sing  the  very  songs  you  have 


638 

caught  up  by  ear  from  my  voice :  I  do  not  ask  whence  flows 
the  feeling  which  you  pour  into  these  songs,  for  I  know  it 
flows  out  of  your  heart,  Miss  Keeldar.  In  the  winter 
evenings,  Tartar  lies  at  your  feet :  you  suffer  him  to  rest 
his  head  on  your  perfumed  lap  ;  you  let  him  couch  on  the 
borders  of  your  satin  raiment :  his  rough  hide  is  familiar 
with  the  contact  of  your  hand  :  I  once  saw  you  kiss  him  on 
that  snowT-white  beauty-spot  which  stars  his  broad  fore- 
head. It  is  dangerous  to  say  I  am  like  Tartar :  it  suggests 
to  me  a  claim  to  be  treated  like  Tartar." 

'  "  Perhaps,  sir,  you  can  extort  as  much  from  your  penni- 
less and  friendless  young  orphan  girl,  when  you  find  her." 

1  "  Oh !  could  I  find  her  such  as  I  image  her.  Some- 
thing to  tame  first,  and  teach  afterwards :  to  break  in  and 
then  to  fondle.  To  lift  the  destitute  proud  thing  out  of 
poverty  ;  to  establish  power  over,  and  then  to  be  indulgent 
to  the  capricious  moods  that  never  were  influenced  and 
never  indulged  before ;  to  see  her  alternately  irritated  and 
subdued  al-out  twelve  times  in  the  twenty-four  hours  ;  and 
perhaps,  eventually,  when  her  training  was  accomplished,  to 
behold  her  the  exemplary  and  patient  mother  of  about  a 
dozen  children,  only  now  and  then  lending  little  Louis  a 
cordial  cuff  by  way  of  paying  the  interest  of  the  vast  debt 
she  owes  his  father.  Oh  !  "  (I  went  on),  "  my  orphan  girl 
would  give  me  many  a  kiss  ;  she  would  watch  on  the 
threshold  for  my  coming  home  of  an  evening  :  she  would 
run  into  my  arms ;  should  keep  my  hearth  as  bright  as  she 
would  make  it  warm.  God  bless  the  sweet  idea !  Find  her 
I  must." 

'  Her  eyes  emitted  an  eager  flash,  her  lips  opened  ;  but 
she  reclosed  them,  and  impetuously  turned  away. 

'  "  Tell  me,  tell  me  where  she  is,  Miss  Keeldar !  " 

'  Another  movement :  all  haughtiness,  and  fire,  and 
impulse. 

'  "  I  must  know.     You  can  tell  me.     You  shall  tell  me." 

'  "  I  never  ic ill." 

'  She  turned  to  leave  me.     Could  I  now  let  her  part  as 


WRITTEN   IN   THE   SCHOOLROOM          639 

she  had  always  parted  from  me  ?  No :  I  had  gone  too  far 
not  to  finish.  I  had  come  too  near  the  end  not  to  drive 
home  to  it.  All  the  encumbrance  of  doubt,  all  the  rubbish 
of  indecision  must  be  removed  at  once,  and  the  plain  truth 
must  be  ascertained.  She  must  take  her  part,  and  tell  me 
what  it  was.  I  must  take  mine,  and  adhere  to  it. 

'  "  A  minute,  madam,"  I  said,  keeping  my  hand  on  the 
door-handle  before  I  opened  it.  "  We  have  had  a  long  con- 
versation this  morning,  but  the  last  word  has  not  been 
spoken  yet :  it  is  yours  to  speak  it." 

'"May  I  pass?" 

' "  No.  I  guard  the  door.  I  would  almost  rather  die 
than  let  you  leave  me  just  now,  without  speaking  the  word 
I  demand." 

'  "  What  dare  you  expect  me  to  say  ?  " 

'  "  What  I  am  dying  and  perishing  to  hear  ;  what  I  must 
and  will  hear  ;  what  you  dare  not  now  suppress." 

1  "  Mr.  Moore,  I  hardly  know  what  you  mean  :  you  are 
not  like  yourself." 

'  I  suppose  I  hardly  was  like  my  usual  self,  for  I  scared 
her  ;  that  I  could  see  :  it  was  right ;  she  must  be  scared  to 
be  won. 

' "  You  do  know  what  I  mean,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
stand  before  you  myself.  I  have  flung  off  the  tutor,  and 
beg  to  introduce  you  to  the  man  :  and,  remember,  he  is  a 
gentleman." 

'  She  trembled.  She  put  her  hand  to  mine  as  if  to 
remove  it  from  the  lock ;  she  might  as  well  have  tried  to 
loosen,  by  her  soft  touch,  metal  welded  to  metal.  She  felt 
she  was  powerless,  and  receded ;  and  again  she  trembled. 

'  What  change  I  underwent  I  cannot  explain ;  but  out  of 
her  emotion  passed  into  me  a  new  spirit.  I  neither  was 
crushed  nor  elated  by  her  lands  and  gold  ;  I  thought  not  of 
them,  cared  not  for  them  :  they  were  nothing  :  dross  that 
could  not  dismay  me.  I  saw  only  herself ;  her  young 
beautiful  form  ;  the  grace,  the  majesty,  the  modesty  of  her 
girlhood. 


640  SHIRLEY 

'"My  pupil,"  I  said. 

"'  My  master,"  was  the  low  answer. 

' "  I  have  a  thing  to  tell  you." 

1  She  waited  with  declined  brow,  and  ringlets  drooped. 

'  "  I  have  to  tell  you,  that  for  four  years  you  have  been 
growing  into  your  tutor's  heart,  and  that  you  are  rooted 
there  now.  I  have  to  declare  that  you  have  bewitched  me, 
in  spite  of  sense  and  experience,  and  difference  of  station 
and  estate  :  you  have  so  looked,  and  spoken,  and  moved  ;  so 
shown  me  your  faults  and  your  virtues — beauties  rather ; 
they  are  hardly  so  stern  as  virtues— that  I  love  you — love 
you  with  my  life  and  strength.  It  is  out  now." 

'  She  sought  what  to  say,  but  could  not  find  a  word :  she 
tried  to  rally,  but  vainly.  I  passionately  repeated  that  I 
loved  her. 

1 "  Well,  Mr.  Moore,  what  then  ?  "  was  the  answer  I  got, 
uttered  in  a  tone  that  would  have  been  petulant  if  it  had  not 
faltei'ed. 

' "  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  Have  you  no  love 
for  me  ?  " 

• "  A  little  bit." 

'"I  am  not  to  be  tortured :   I  will  not  even  play  at 
present." 

'  "  I  don't  want  to  play  ;  I  want  to  go." 

' "  I  wonder  you  dare  speak  of  going  at  this  moment, 
You  go !  What !  with  my  heart  in  your  hand,  to  lay  it  on 
your  toilet  and  pierce  it  with  your  pins  ?  From  my  presence 
you  do  not  stir ;  out  of  my  reach  you  do  not  stray,  till  I 
receive  a  hostage— pledge  for  pledge — your  heart  for  mine." 

'  "  The  thing  you  want  is  mislaid — lost  some  time  since: 
let  me  go  and  seek  it." 

'  "  Declare  that  it  is  where  your  keys  often  are — in  my 
possession." 

' "  You  ought  to  know.  And  where  are  my  keys,  Mr. 
Moore  ?  Indeed  and  truly,  I  have  lost  them  again ;  and 
Mrs.  Gill  wants  some  money,  and  I  have  none,  except  this 
sixpence." 


WBITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM         641 

'  She  took  the  coin  out  of  her  apron-pocket,  and  showed 
it  in  her  palm.  I  could  have  trifled  with  her  ;  but  it  would 
not  do  :  life  and  death  were  at  stake.  Mastering  at  once 
the  sixpence  and  the  hand  that  held  it,  I  demanded, — "  Am 
I  to  die  without  you,  or  am  I  to  live  for  you  ?  " 

' "  Do  as  you  please  :  far  be  it  from  me  to  dictate  your 
choice." 

' "  You  shall  tell  me  with  your  own  lips,  whether  you 
doom  me  to  exile,  or  call  me  to  hope." 

1 "  Go.     I  can  bear  to  be  left." 

' "  Perhaps,  I  too  can  bear  to  leave  you :  but  reply, 
Shirley,  my  pupil,  my  sovereign — reply." 

' "  Die  without  me,  if  you  will.  Live  for  me  if  you 
dare." 

' "  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  my  leopardess  :  I  dare  live  for 
and  with  you,  from  this  hour  till  my  death.  Now,  then,  I 
have  you :  you  are  mine :  I  will  never  let  you  go.  Wherever 
my  home  be,  I  have  chosen  my  wife.  If  I  stay  in  England, 
in  England  you  will  stay ;  if  I  cross  the  Atlantic,  you  will 
cross  it  also  :  our  lives  are  riveted  ;  our  lots  intertwined." 

'  "  And  are  we  equal  then,  sir  ?     Are  we  equal  at  last?" 

' "  You  are  younger,  frailer,  feebler,  more  ignorant 
than  I." 

'  "  Will  you  be  good  to  me,  and  never  tyrannize  ?  " 

'  "  Will  you  let  me  breathe,  and  not  bewilder  me  ?  You 
must  not  smile  at  present.  The  world  swims  and  changes 
round  me.  The  sun  is  a  dizzying  scarlet  blaze,  the  sky  a 
violet  vortex  whirling  over  me." 

'  I  am  a  strong  man,  but  I  staggered  as  I  spoke.  All 
creation  was  exaggerated  :  colour  grew  more  vivid  :  motion 
more  rapid  ;  life  itself  more  vital.  I  hardly  saw  her  for  a 
moment ;  but  I  heard  her  voice — pitilessly  sweet.  She 
would  not  subdue  one  of  her  charms  in  compassion :  perhaps 
she  did  not  know  what  I  felt. 

'  "  You  name  me  leopardess  :  remember,  the  leopardess 
is  tameless,"  said  she. 

'  "  Tame  or  fierce,  wild  or  subdued,  you  are  mine." 


642  SHIBLEY 

' "  I  am  glad  I  know  my  keeper,  and  am  used  to  him. 
Only  his  voice  will  I  follow  ;  only  his  hand  shall  manage 
me ;  only  at  his  feet  will  I  repose." 

'  I  took  her  back  to  her  seat,  and  sat  down  by  her  side '. 
I  wanted  to  hear  her  speak  again  :  I  could  never  have  enough 
of  her  voice  and  her  words. 

'  "  How  much  do  you  love  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

'"  Ah !  you  know :  I  will  not  gratify  you :  I  will  not 
flatter." 

'  "  I  don't  know  half  enough  :  my  heart  craves  to  be  fed. 
If  you  knew  how  hungry  and  ferocious  it  is,  you  would  hasten 
to  stay  it  with  a  kind  word  or  two." 

'  "  Poor  Tartar ! "  said  she,  touching  and  patting  my  hand : 
"poor  fellow;  stalwart  friend ;  Shirley's  pet  and  favourite, 
lie  down !  " 

' "  But  I  will  not  lie  down  till  I  am  fed  with  one  sweet 
word." 

'  And  at  last  she  gave  it. 

'  "  Dear  Louis,  be  faithful  to  me :  never  leave  me.  I 
don't  care  for  life,  unless  I  may  pass  it  at  your  side." 

' "  Something  more." 

1  She  gave  me  a  change  :  it  was  not  her  way  to  offer  the 
same  dish  twice. 

'  "  Sir  !  "  she  said,  starting  up,  "  at  your  peril  you  ever 
again  name  such  sordid  things  as  money,  or  poverty,  or 
inequality.  It  will  be  absolutely  dangerous  to  torment  me 
with  these  maddening  scruples.  I  defy  you  to  do  it." 

'  My  face  grew  hot.  I  did  once  more  wish  I  were  not  so 
poor,  or  she  were  not  so  rich.  She  saw  the  transient  misery  ; 
and  then,  indeed,  she  caressed  me.  Blent  with  torment,  I 
experienced  rapture. 

"  Mr.  Moore,"  said  she,  looking  up  with  a  sweet,  open, 
earnest  countenance,  "  teach  me  and  help  me  to  be  good.  I 
do  not  ask  you  to  take  off  my  shoulders  all  the  cares  and 
duties  of  property  ;  but  I  ask  you  to  share  the  burden,  and 
to  ghow  me  how  to  sustain  my  part  well.  Your  judgment 
is  well  balanced  ;  your  heart  is  kind ;  your  principles  are 


WRITTEN  IN   THE   SCHOOLROOM         643 

sound.     I  know  you  are  wise ;  I  feel  you  are  benevolent  ; 
I  believe  you  are  conscientious.     Be  my  companion  through 
life ;  be  my  guide  where  I  am  ignorant :  be  my  master  where 
I  am  faulty  ;  be  my  friend  always  !  " 
'  So  help  me  God,  I  will ! ' 

Yet  again,  a  passage  from  the  blank  book,  if  you  like, 
reader ;  if  you  don't  like  it,  pass  it  over  :— 

'  The  Sympsons  are  gone ;  but  not  before  discovery  and 
explanation.  My  manner  must  have  betrayed  something, 
or  my  looks  :  I  was  quiet,  but  I  forgot  to  be  guarded  some- 
times. I  stayed  longer  in  the  room  than  usual ;  I  could 
not  bear  to  be  out  of  her  presence ;  I  returned  to  it,  and 
basked  in  it,  like  Tartar  in  the  sun.  If  she  left  the  oak- 
parlour,  instinctively  I  rose,  and  left  it  too.  She  chid  me  for 
this  procedure  more  than  once  :  I  did  it  with  a  vague 
blundering  idea  of  getting  a  word  with  her  in  the  hall,  or 
elsewhere.  Yesterday,  towards  dusk,  I  had  her  to  myself 
for  five  minutes,  by  the  hall-fire  :  we  stood  side  by  side ; 
she  was  railing  at  me,  and  I  was  enjoying  the  sound  of  her 
voice  :  the  young  ladies  passed,  and  looked  at  us ;  we  did 
not  separate :  erelong,  they  repassed,  and  again  looked. 
Mrs.  Sympson  came ;  we  did  not  move  :  Mr.  Sympson 
opened  the  dining-room  door  ;  Shirley  flashed  him  back  full 
payment  for  his  spying  gaze  :  she  curled  her  lip,  and  tossed 
her  tresses.  The  glance  she  gave  was  at  once  explanatory 
and  defiant ;  it  said — "  I  like  Mr.  Moore's  society,  and  I  dare 
you  to  find  fault  with  my  taste." 

'  I  asked,  "  Do  you  mean  him  to  understand  how  matters 
are  ?  " 

' "  I  do,"  said  she ;  "  but  I  leave  the  development  to 
chance.  There  will  be  a  scene.  I  neither  invite  it  nor  fear 
it — only,  you  must  be  present :  for  I  am  inexpressibly  tired 
of  facing  him  solus.  I  don't  like  to  see  him  in  a  rage :  he 
then  puts  off  all  his  fine  proprieties  and  conventional  dis- 
guises, and  the  real  human  being  below  is  what  you  would 
call  '  commun,  plat,  bas — vilain  et  un  peu  me"chant.'  His 


644  SHIRLEY 

ideas  are  not  clean,  Mr.  Moore ;  they  want  scouring  with 
soft  soap  and  fuller's  earth.  I  think,  if  he  could  add  his 
imagination  to  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Gill's  bucking-basket, 
and  let  her  boil  it  in  her  copper,  with  rain-water  and 
bleaching-powder  (I  hope  you  think  me  a  tolerable  laundress), 
it  would  do  him  incalculable  good." 

'  This  morning,  fancying  I  heard  her  descend  somewhat 
early,  I  was  down  instantly.  I  had  not  been  deceived  : 
there  she  was,  busy  at  work,  in  the  breakfast-parlour,  of 
which  the  housemaid  was  completing  the  arrangement  and 
dusting.  She  had  risen  betimes  to  finish  some  little  keepsake 
she  intended  for  Henry.  I  got  only  a  cool  reception  ;  which 
I  accepted  till  the  girl  was  gone,  taking  my  book  to  the 
window-seat  very  quietly.  Even  when  we  were  alone,  I 
was  slow  to  disturb  her  :  to  sit  with  her  in  sight  was  happi- 
ness, and  the  proper  happiness,  for  early  morning — serene, 
incomplete,  but  progressive.  Had  I  been  obtrusive,  I  knew 
I  should  have  encountered  rebuff.  "  Not  at  home  to  suitors," 
was  written  on  her  brow ;  therefore,  I  read  on — stole,  now 
and  then,  a  look ;  watched  her  countenance  soften  and  open, 
and  she  felt  I  respected  her  mood,  and  enjoyed  the  gentle 
content  of  the  moment. 

'  The  distance  between  us  shrank,  and  the  light  hoar- 
frost thawed  insensibly :  ere  an  hour  elapsed,  I  was  at  her 
side,  watching  her  sew,  gathering  her  sweet  smiles  and  her 
merry  words,  which  fell  for  me  abundantly.  We  sat,  as  we 
had  a  right  to  sit,  side  by  side  :  my  arm  rested  on  her 
chair  ;  I  was  near  enough  to  count  the  stitches  of  her  work, 
and  to  discern  the  eye  of  her  needle.  The  door  suddenly 
opened. 

'  I  believe,  if  I  had  just  then  started  from  her,  she  would 
have  despised  me  :  thanks  to  the  phlegm  of  my  nature,  I 
rarely  start.  When  I  am  well-off,  bien,  comfortable,  I  am 
not  soon  stirred:  bien  I  was — tres  bien— consequently, 
immutable :  no  muscle  moved.  I  hardly  looked  to  the 
door. 

"  Good-morning,    uncle,"   said    she,    addressing    that 


WBITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM          645 

personage ;    who  paused  on  the  threshold  in   a  state  of 
petrification. 

'  "  Have  you  been  long  down-stairs,  Miss  Keeldar,  and 
alone  with  Mr.  Moore  ?  " 

' "  Yes,  a  very  long  time  :  we  both  came  down  early ;  it 
was  scarcely  light." 

'  "  The  proceeding  is  improper " 

' "  It  was  at  first :  I  was  rather  cross,  and  not  civil ;  but 
you  will  perceive  that  we  are  now  friends." 

'  "  I  perceive  more  than  you  would  wish  me  to  perceive." 

'  "  Hardly,  sir,"  said  I :  "  we  have  no  disguises.  Will 
you  permit  me  to  intimate,  that  any  further  observations 
you  have  to  make  may  as  well  be  addressed  to  me.  Hence- 
forward, I  stand  between  Miss  Keeldar  and  all  annoyance." 

'  "  You  !    What  have  you  to  do  with  Miss  Keeldar?  " 

'  "  To  protect,  watch  over,  serve  her." 
"  You,  sir  ? — you,  the  tutor  ?  " 

' "  Not  one  word  of  insult  sir,"  interposed  she :  "  not 
one  syllable  of  disrespect  to  Mr.  Moore,  in  this  house." 

'"Do  you  take  his  part ? " 

'  "  His  part  ?    Oh,  yes  !  " 

'  She  turned  to  me  with  a  sudden,  fond  movement,  which 
I  met  by  circling  her  with  my  arm.  She  and  I  both  rose, 

' "  Good  Ged ! "  was  the  cry  from  the  morning-gown 
standing  quivering  at  the  door,  Ged,  I  think,  must  be  the 
cognomen  of  Mr.  Sympson's  Lares  :  when  hard-pressed,  he 
always  invokes  this  idol. 

' "  Come  forward,  uncle :  you  shall  hear  all.  Tell  him 
all,  Louis." 

"  I  dare  him  to  speak !  The  beggar !  the  knave  !  the 
specious  hypocrite  !  the  vile,  insinuating,  infamous  menial  I 
Stand  apart  from  my  niece,  sir :  let  her  go  !  " 

'  She  clung  to  me  with  energy.  "  I  am  near  my  future 
husband,"  she  said  :  '  who  dares  touch  him  or  me  ?  " 

'  "  Her  husband  !  "  He  raised  and  spread  his  hands  :  he 
dropped  into  a  seat. 

' "  A  while  ago,  you  wanted  much  to  know  whom  I 


646  SHIRLEY 

meant  to  marry :  my  intention  was  then  formed,  but  not 
mature  for  communication ;  now  it  is  i"ipe,  sun-mellowed, 
perfect :  take  the  crimson-peach — take  Louis  Moore  !  " 

1 "  But "  (savagely)  "  you  sJiall  twi  have  him — he  shall 
not  have  you." 

'  "  I  would  die  before  I  would  have  another.  I  would 
die  if  I  might  not  have  him." 

'  He  uttered  words  with  which  this  page  shall  never  be 
polluted. 

'  She  turned  white  as  death :  she  shook  all  over :  she 
lost  her  strength.  I  laid  her  down  on  the  sofa :  just  looked 
to  ascertain  that  she  had  not  fainted — of  which,  with  a 
divine  smile,  she  assured  me :  I  kissed  her,  and  then,  if  I 
were  to  perish,  I  cannot  give  a  clear  account  of  what  hap- 
pened in  the  course  of  the  next  five  minutes  :  she  has  since 
— through  tears,  laughter,  and  trembling — told  me  that  I 
turned  terrible,  and  gave  myself  to  the  demon  ;  she  says  I 
left  her,  made  one  bound  across  the  room — that  Mr. 
Sympson  vanished  through  the  door  as  if  shot  from  a 
cannon—  I  also  vanished,  and  she  heard  Mrs.  Gill  scream. 

'  Mrs.  Gill  was  still  screaming  when  I  came  to  my 
senses  :  I  was  then  in  another  apartment — the  oak-parlour, 
I  think :  I  held  Sympson  before  me  crushed  into  a  chair, 
and  my  hand  was  on  his  cravat ;  his  eyes  rolled  in  his  head 
—I  was  strangling  him,  I  think  :  the  housekeeper  stood 
wringing  her  hands,  entreating  me  to  desist ;  I  desisted  that 
moment,  and  felt  at  once  as  cool  as  stone.  But  I  told  Mrs. 
Gill  to  fetch  the  Bed-House  Inn  chaise  instantly,  and 
informed  Mr.  Sympson  he  must  depart  from  Fieldhead  the 
instant  it  came :  though  half-frightened  out  of  his  wits,  he 
declared  he  would  not.  Repeating  the  former  order,  I 
added  a  commission  to  fetch  a  constable.  I  said  :  "  You 
shall  go — by  fair  means  or  foul." 

'  He  threatened  prosecution — I  cared  for  nothing  :  I  had 
stood  over  him  once  before,  not  quite  so  fiercely  as  now,  but 
full  as  austerely.  It  was  one  night  when  burglars  attempted 
the  house  at  Sympson  Grove  ;  and  in  bis  wretched  cowardice 


WBITTEN  IN  THE  SCHOOLROOM         647 

he  would  have  given   a  vain  alarm,  without  daring  to  offer 
defence  :  I  had  then  been  obliged  to  protect  his  family  and 
his  abode  by  mastering  himself — and  I  had  succeeded.     I 
now  remained  with  him  till  the  chaise  came  :  I  marshalled 
him  to  it,  he  scolding  all  the  way.     He  was  terribly  bewil- 
dered, as  well  as  enraged ;  he  would  have  resisted  me,  but 
knew  not  how  :  he   called  for  his  wife   and  daughters  to 
come.     I  said  they  should  follow  him  as  soon  as  they  could 
prepare :  the  smoke,  the  fume,  the  fret  of  his  demeanour 
was  inexpressible,  but  it  was  a  fury  incapable  of  producing 
a  deed :    that   man,  properly  handled,    must  ever   remain 
impotent.     I  know  he  will  never  touch  me  with  the  law  :  I 
know  his  wife,  over  whom  he  tyrannizes  in  trifles,  guides 
him  in  matters  of  importance.     I  have  long  since  earned 
her  undying  mother's  gratitude  by  my  devotion  to  her  boy  : 
in  some  of  Henry's  ailments  I  have  nursed  him — better,  she 
said,  than  any  woman  could  nurse  :  she  will  never  forget 
that.     She  and  her  daughters  quitted  me  to-day,  in  mute 
wrath   and   consternation — but    she   respects   me.      When 
Henry  clung  to  my  neck,  as  I  lifted  him  into  the  carriage 
and  placed  him  by  her  side — when  I  arranged   her  own 
wrapping  to  make  her  warm,  though  she  turned  her  head 
from  me,  I  saw  the  tears  start  to  her  eyes.     She  will  but 
the  more  zealously  advocate  my  cause,  because  she  has  left 
me  in  anger.     I  am  glad  of  this :  not  for  my  own  sake,  but 
for  that  of  my  life  and  idol — my  Shirley.' 
Once  again  he  writes — a  week  after  : — 
'  I  am  now  at  Stilbro' :  I  have  taken  up  my  temporary 
abode  with  a  friend— a  professional  man — in  whose  business 
I  can  be  useful.     Every  day  I  ride  over  to  Fieldhead.     How 
long  will  it  be  before  I  can  call  that  place  my  home,  and  its 
mistress  mine  ?     I  am  not  easy — not  tranquil :  I  am  tan- 
talised—sometimes tortured.     To  see  her  now,  one  would 
think  she  had   never  pressed  her  cheek  to  my  shoulder,  or 
clung  to  me  with  tenderness  or  trust.     I  feel  unsafe  :  she 
renders  me  miserable  :  I  am  shunned  when  I  visit  her :  she 
withdraws  from  my  reach.    Once,  this  day,  I  lifted  her  face, 


648  SHIRLEY 

resolved  to  get  a  full  look  down  her  deep,  dark  eyes  :  difficult 
to  describe  what  I  read  there !  Pantheress  ! — beautiful 
forest- born  ! — wily,  tameless,  peerless,  nature  !  She  gnaws 
her  chain  :  I  see  the  white  teeth  working  at  the  steel !  She 
has  dreams  of  her  wild  woods,  and  pinings  after  virgin 
freedom.  I  wish  Sympson  would  come  again,  and  oblige 
her  again  to  entwine  her  arms  about  me.  I  wish  there  was 
danger  she  should  lose  me,  as  there  is  risk  I  shall  lose  her. 
No  :  final  loss,  I  do  not  fear  ;  but  long  delay 

'  It  is  now  night — midnight.  I  have  spent  the  afternoon 
and  evening  at  Fieldhead.  Some  hours  ago  she  passed  me, 
coming  down  the  oak-staircase  to  the  hall :  she  did  not 
know  I  was  standing  in  the  twilight,  near  the  staircase- 
window,  looking  at  the  frost-bright  constellations.  How 
closely  she  glided  against  the  banisters !  How  shyly 
shone  her  large  eyes  upon  me  !  How  evanescent,  fugi- 
tive, fitful,  she  looked, — slim  and  swift  as  a  Northern 
Streamer ! 

'  I  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room  :  Mrs.  Pryor  and 
Caroline  Helstone  were  both  there  :  she  has  summoned 
them  to  bear  her  company  awhile.  In  her  white  evening 
dress ;  with  her  long  hair  flowing  full  and  wavy  ;  with  her 
noiseless  step,  her  pale  cheek,  her  eye  full  of  night  and 
lightning,  she  looked,  I  thought,  spirit-like, — a  thing  made 
of  an  element, — the  child  of  a  breeze  and  a  flame, — the 
daughter  of  ray  and  rain-drop, — a  thing  never  to  be  over- 
taken, arrested,  fixed.  I  wished  I  could  avoid  following  her 
with  my  gaze,  as  she  moved  here  and  there,  but  it  was 
impossible.  I  talked  with  the  other  ladies  as  well  as  I 
could,  but  still  I  looked  at  her.  She  was  very  silent :  I 
think  she  never  spoke  to  me, — not  even  when  she  offered  me 
tea.  It  happened  that  she  was  called  out  a  minute  by  Mrs. 
Gill.  I  passed  into  the  moon -lit  hall,  with  the  design  of 
getting  a  word  as  she  returned  :  nor  in  this  did  I  fail. 

' "  Miss  Keeldar,  stay  one  instant  1  "  said  I,  meeting 
her. 

'  "  \Yhy  ?— the  hall  is  too  cold." 


WRITTEN   IN   THE   SCHOOLROOM          649 

' "  It  is  not  cold  for  me  :  at  my  side,  it  should  not  be 
cold  for  you." 

'  "  But  I  shiver." 

' "  With  fear,  I  believe.  What  makes  you  fear  me  ? 
You  are  quiet  and  distant :  why  ?  " 

'  "  I  may  well  fear  what  looks  like  a  great  dark  goblin 
meeting  me  in  the  moonlight." 

' "  Do  not — do  not  pass  1 — stay  with  me  awhile  :  let  us 
exchange  a  few  quiet  words.  It  is  three  days  since  I  spoke 
to  you  alone  :  such  changes  are  cruel." 

' "  I  have  no  wish  to  be  cruel,"  she  responded,  softly 
enough  :  indeed,  there  was  softness  in  her  whole  deportment 
— in  her  face,  in  her  voice  ;  but  there  was  also  reserve,  and 
an  air  fleeting,  evanishing,  intangible. 

'  "  You  certainly  give  me  pain,"  said  I.  "  It  is  hardly  a 
week  since  you  called  me  your  future  husband,  and  treated 
me  as  such  ;  now  I  am  once  more  the  tutor  for  you  :  I  am 
addressed  as  Mr.  Moore,  and  Sir ;  your  lips  have  forgotten 
Louis." 

'  "  No,  Louis,  no  :  it  is  an  easy,  liquid  name ;  not  soon 
forgotten." 

'  "  Be  cordial  to  Louis,  then  :  approach  him — let  him 
approach." 

' "  I  am  cordial,"  said  she,  hovering  aloof  like  a  white 
shadow. 

'  "  Your  voice  is  very  sweet  and  very  low,"  I  answered, 
quietly  advancing  :  "  you  seem  subdued,  but  still  startled." 

'  "  No, — quite  calm,  and  afraid  of  nothing,"  she  assured 
me. 

'  "  Of  nothing  but  your  votary." 

'  I  bent  a  knee  to  the  flags  at  her  feet. 

' "  You  see  I  am  in  a  new  world,  Mr.  Moore.  I  don't 
know  myself, — I  don't  know  you  :  but  rise  ;  when  you  do  so 
I  feel  troubled  and  disturbed." 

'  I  obeyed ;  it  would  not  have  suited  me  to  retain  that 
attitude  long.  I  courted  serenity  and  confidence  for  her. 
and  not  vainly :  she  trusted,  and  clung  to  me  again. 


650  SHIRLEY 

' "  Now,  Shirley,"  I  said,  "  you  can  conceive  I  am  far 
from  happy  in  my  present  uncertain,  unsettled  state." 

'  "  Oh,  yes  ;  you  are  happy !  "  she  cried,  hastily  :  "  you 
don't  know  how  happy  you  are  ! — any  change  will  be  for  the 
worse ! " 

' "  Happy  or  not,  I  cannot  bear  to  go  on  so  much  longer : 
you  are  too  generous  to  require  it." 

' "  Be  reasonable,  Louis, — be  patient !  I  like  you  because 
you  are  patient." 

'  "  Like  me  no  longer,  then, — love  me  instead :  fix  our 
marriage-day.  Think  of  it  to-night,  and  decide." 

'  She  breathed  a  murmur,  inarticulate  yet  expressive ; 
darted,  or  melted,  from  my  arms — and  I  lost  her.' 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE    WINDINQ-UP 

YES,  reader,  we  must  settle  accounts  now.  I  have  only 
briefly  to  narrate  the  final  fates  of  some  of  the  personages 
whose  acquaintance  we  have  made  in  this  narrative,  and 
then  you  and  I  must  shake  hands,  and  for  the  present 
separate.  Let  us  turn  to  the  Curates, — to  the  much-loved, 
though  long-neglected.  Come  forward,  modest  merit ! 
Malone,  I  see,  promptly  answers  the  invocation  :  he  knows 
his  own  description  when  he  hears  it. 

No,  Peter  Augustus,  we  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  : 
it  won't  do.  Impossible  to  trust  ourselves  with  the  touching 
tale  of  your  deeds  and  destinies.  Are  you  not  aware,  Peter, 
that  a  discriminating  public  has  its  crotchets  :  that  the  un- 
varnished truth  does  not  answer ;  that  plain  facts  will  not 
digest  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  the  squeak  of  the  real  pig  is 
no  more  relished  now  than  it  was  in  days  of  yore  ?  Were  I 
to  give  the  catastrophe  of  your  life  and  conversation,  the 
public  would  sweep  off  in  shrieking  hysterics,  and  there 
would  be  a  wild  cry  for  sal-volatile  and  burnt  feathers. 
1  Impossible  ! '  would  be  pronounced  here  :  '  untrue  ! '  would 
be  responded  there.  '  Inartistic  ! '  would  be  solemnly  decided. 
Note  well !  Whenever  you  present  the  actual,  simple  truth, 
it  is,  somehow,  always  denounced  as  a  lie :  they  disown  it, 
cast  it  off,  throw  it  on  the  parish ;  whereas  the  product  of 
your  own  imagination,  the  mere  figment,  the  sheer  fiction,  is 
adopted,  petted,  termed  pretty,  proper,  sweetly  natural :  the 
little  spurious  wretch  gets  all  the  comfits, — the  honest, 


652  SHIELEY 

lawful  bantling,  all  the  cuffs.  Such  is  the  way  of  the  world, 
Peter ;  and,  as  you  are  the  legitimate  urchin,  rude,  unwashed, 
and  naughty,  you  must  stand  down. 

Make  way  for  Mr.  Sweeting.— Here  he  comes,  with  his 
lady  on  his  arm ;  the  most  splendid  and  the  weightiest 
woman  in  Yorkshire :  Mrs.  Sweeting,  formerly  Miss  Dora 
Sykes.  They  were  married  under  the  happiest  auspices ; 
Mr.  Sweeting  having  been  just  inducted  to  a  comfortable 
living,  and  Mr.  Sykes  being  in  circumstances  to  give  Dora  a 
handsome  portion.  They  lived  long  and  happily  together, 
beloved  by  their  parishioners  and  by  a  numerous  circle  of 
friends. — There !  I  think  the  varnish  has  been  put  on  very 
nicely.  Advance,  Mr.  Donne. — This  gentleman  turned  out 
admirably :  far  better  than  either  you  or  I  could  possibly 
have  expected,  reader.  He,  too,  married  a  most  sensible, 
quiet,  lady-like  little  woman  :  the  match  was  the  making  of 
him  :  he  became  an  exemplary  domestic  character,  and  a 
truly  active  parish-priest  (as  a  pastor,  he,  to  his  dying  day, 
conscientiously  refused  to  act).  The  outside  of  the  cup  and 
platter  he  burnished  up  with  the  best  polishing-powder ;  the 
furniture  of  the  altar  and  temple  he  looked  after  with  the 
zeal  of  an  upholsterer — the  care  of  a  cabinet-maker.  His 
little  school,  his  little  church,  his  little  parsonage,  all  owed 
their  erection  to  him  ;  and  they  did  him  credit :  each  was  a 
model  in  its  way  :  if  uniformity  and  taste  in  architecture  had 
been  the  same  thing  as  consistency  and  earnestness  in  reli- 
gion, what  a  shepherd  of  a  Christian  flock  Mr.  Donne  would 
have  made  !  There  was  one  art  in  the  mastery  of  which 
nothing  mortal  ever  surpassed  Mr.  Donne — it  was  that  of 
begging.  By  his  own  unassisted  efforts,  he  begged  all  the 
money  for  all  his  erections.  In  this  matter  he  had  a  grasp 
of  plan,  a  scope  of  action  quite  unique  :  he  begged  of  high 
and  low — of  the  shoeless  cottage-brat  and  the  coroneted 
duke  :  he  sent  out  begging- letters  far  and  wide — to  old 
Queen  Charlotte,  to  the  princesses  her  daughters,  to  her 
sons  the  royal  dukes,  to  the  Prince  Regent,  to  Lord  Castle- 
reagh,  to  every  member  of  the  Ministry  then  in  office  ;  and, 


THE   WINDING-UP  653 

what  is  more  remarkable,  he  screwed  something  out  of  every 
one  of  these  personages.  It  is  on  record  that  he  got  five 
pounds  from  the  close-fisted  old  lady,  Queen  Charlotte,  and 
two  guineas  from  the  royal  profligate,  her  eldest  son.  When 
Mr.  Donne  set  out  on  begging  expeditions,  he  armed  himself 
in  a  complete  suit  of  brazen  mail :  that  you  had  given  a 
hundred  pounds  yesterday,  was,  with  him,  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  give  two  hundred  to-day  :  he  would  tell  you 
so  to  your  face,  and,  ten  to  one,  get  the  money  out  of  you : 
people  gave  to  get  rid  of  him.  After  all,  he  did  some  good 
with  the  cash  ;  he  was  useful  in  his  day  and  generation. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  remark  that,  on  the  premature  and 
sudden  vanishing  of  Mr.  Malone  from  the  stage  of  Briarfield 
parish  (you  cannot  know  how  it  happened,  reader ;  your 
curiosity  must  be  robbed  to  pay  your  elegant  love  of  the 
pretty  and  pleasing),  there  came  as  his  successor  another 
Irish  curate,  Mr.  Macarthey.  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
inform  you,  with  truth,  that  this  gentleman  did  as  much 
credit  to  his  country  as  Malone  had  done  it  discredit :  he 
proved  himself  as  decent,  decorous,  and  conscientious,  as 

Peter  was  rampant,  boisterous,  and (this  last  epithet  I 

choose  to  suppress,  because  it  would  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag).  He  laboured  faithfully  in  the  parish  :  the  schools,  both 
Sunday  and  day-schools,  flourished  under  his  sway  like  green 
bay-trees.  Being  human,  of  course  he  had  his  faults  ;  these. 
however,  were  proper,  steady-going,  clerical  faults  ;  what 
many  would  call  virtues  :  the  circumstance  of  finding  him- 
self invited  to  tea  with  a  Dissenter  would  unhinge  him  for  a 
week  ;  the  spectacle  of  a  Quaker  wearing  his  hat  in  the 
church,  the  thought  of  an  unbaptized  fellow-creature  being 
interred  with  Christian  rites — these  things  could  make 
strange  havoc  in  Mr.  Macarthey's  physical  and  mental 
economy  ;  otherwise  he  was  sane  and  rational,  diligent  and 
charitable. 

I  doubt  not  a  justice-loving  public  will  have  remarked, 
ere  this,  that  I  have  thus  far  shown  a  criminal  remissness  in 
pursuing,  catching,  and  bringing  to  condign  punishment  the 


654  SHIRLEY 

would-be  assassin  of  Mr.  Robert  Moore :  here  was  a  fine 
opening  to  lead  my  willing  readers  a  dance,  at  once  decorous 
and  exciting :  a  dance  of  law  and  gospel,  of  the  dungeon, 
the  dock,  and  the  '  dead-thraw.'  You  might  have  liked  it, 
reader,  but  I  should  not :  I  and  my  subject  would  presently 
have  quarrelled,  and  then  I  should  have  broken  down  :  I 
was  happy  to  find  that  facts  perfectly  exonerated  me  from 
the  attempt.  The  murderer  was  never  punished  ;  for  the 
good  reason  that  he  was  never  caught ;  the  result  of  the 
further  circumstance  that  he  was  never  pursued.  The 
magistrates  made  a  shuffling,  as  if  they  were  going  to  rise 
and  do  valiant  things ;  but,  since  Moore  himself,  instead  of 
urging  and  leading  them  as  heretofore,  lay  still  on  his  little 
cottage-couch,  laughing  in  his  sleeve  and  sneering  with  every 
feature  of  his  pale,  foreign  face,  they  considered  better  of  it ; 
and,  after  fulfilling  certain  indispensable  forms,  prudently 
resolved  to  let  the  matter  quietly  drop,  which  they  did.  Mr- 
Moore  knew  who  had  shot  him,  and  all  Briarfield  knew  ;  it 
was  no  other  than  Michael  Hartley,  the  half-crazed  weaver 
once  before  allnded  to,  a  frantic  Antinomian  in  religion,  and 
a  mad  leveller  in  politics  ;  the  poor  soul  died  of  delirium 
tremens,  a  year  after  the  attempt  on  Moore,  and  Robert  gave 
his  wretched  widow  a  guinea  to  bury  him. 


The  winter  is  over  and  gone :  spring  has  followed  with 
beamy  and  shadowy,  with  flowery  and  showery  flight :  we 
are  now  in  the  heart  of  summer— in  mid-June, — the  June 
of  1812. 

It  is  burning  weather  :  the  air  is  deep  azure  and  red 
gold  :  it  fits  the  time  ;  it  fits  the  age  ;  it  fits  the  present 
spirit  of  the  nations.  The  nineteenth  century  wantons  in 
its  giant  adolescence :  the  Titan-boy  uproots  mountains  in 
his  game,  and  hurls  rocks  in  his  wild  sport.  This  summer, 
Bonaparte  is  in  the  saddle :  he  and  his  host  scour  Russian 
deserts :  he  has  with  him  Frenchmen  and  Poles,  Italians 
and  children  of  the  Rhine,  six  hundred  thousand  strong. 
He  marches  on  old  Moscow  :  under  old  Moscow's  walls  the 


THE  WINDING-UP  655 

rude  Cossack  waits  him.  Barbarian  stoic  !  he  waits  without 
fear  of  the  boundless  ruin  rolling  on.  He  puts  his  trust  in  a 
snow-cloud :  the  Wilderness,  the  Wind,  and  the  Hail -storm 
are  his  refuge :  his  allies  are  the  elements — Air,  Fire, 
Water.  And  what  are  these  ?  Three  terrible  archangels 
ever  stationed  before  the  throne  of  Jehovah.  They  stand 
clothed  in  white,  girdled  with  golden  girdles  ;  they  uplift 
vials  brimming  with  the  wrath  of  God.  Their  time  is  the 
day  of  vengeance;  their  signal,  the  word  of  the  Lord  of 
Hosts,  '  thundering  with  the  voice  of  His  excellency.'— 
'  Hast  thou  entered  into  the  treasures  of  the  snow  ?  or  hast 
thou  seen  the  treasures  of  the  hail,  which  I  have  reserved 
against  the  time  of  trouble,  against  the  day  of  battle  and 
war  ? — Go  your  ways  :  pour  out  the  vials  of  the  wrath  of 
God  upon  the  earth.'  It  is  done :  the  earth  is  scorched 
with  fire  :  the  sea  becomes  '  as  the  blood  of  a  dead  man : ' 
the  islands  flee  away  ;  the  mountains  are  not  found. 

In  this  year,  Lord  Wellington  assumed  the  reins  in 
Spain  :  they  made  him  Generalissimo,  for  their  own  sal- 
vation's sake.  In  this  year,  he  took  Badajos,  he  fought  the 
field  of  Vittoria,  he  captured  Pampeluna,  he  stormed  St. 
Sebastian  ;  in  this  year,  he  won  Salamanca. 

Men  of  Manchester  !  I  beg  your  pardon  for  this  slight 
resum6  of  warlike  facts  :  but  it  is  of  no  consequence.  Lord 
Wellington  is,  for  you,  only  a  decayed  old  gentleman  now  : 
I  rather  think  some  of  you  have  called  him  a  '  dotard ' — you 
h.ive  taunted  him  with  his  age,  and  the  loss  of  his  physical 
vigour.  What  fine  heroes  you  are  yourselves  !  Men  like 
you  have  a  right  to  trample  on  what  is  mortal  in  a  demigod. 
Scoff  at  your  ease— your  scorn  can  never  break  his  grand 
old  heart. 

But  come,  friends,  whether  Quakers  or  Cotton-printers, 
let  us  hold  a  Peace-Congress,  and  let  out  our  venom  quietly. 
We  have  been  talking  with  unseemly  zeal  about  bloody 
battles  and  butchering  generals ;  we  arrive  now  at  a 
triumph  in  your  line.  On  the  18th  of  June,  1812,  the 
Orders  in  Council  were  repealed,  and  the  blockaded  ports 


656  SHIBLEY 

thrown  open.  You  know  very  well — such  of  you  as  are  old 
enough  to  remember — you  made  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire 
shake  with  your  shout  on  that  occasion  :  the  ringers  cracked 
a  bell  in  Briarfield  belfry  ;  it  is  dissonant  to  this  day.  The 
Association  of  Merchants  and  Manufacturers  dined  together 
at  Stilbro',  and  one  and  all  went  home  in  such  a  plight  as 
their  wives  would  never  wish  to  witness  more.  Liverpool 
started  and  snorted  like  a  river-horse  roused  among  his 
reeds  by  thunder.  Some  of  the  American  merchants  felt 
threatenings  of  apoplexy,  and  had  themselves  bled  :  all,  like 
wise  men,  at  this  first  moment  of  prosperity,  prepared  to 
rush  into  the  bowels  of  speculation,  and  to  delve  new 
difficulties,  in  whose  depths  they  might  lose  themselves  at 
some  future  day.  Stocks,  which  had  been  accumulating  for 
years,  now  went  off  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye ;  warehouses  were  lightened,  ships  were  laden ;  work 
abounded,  wages  rose  :  the  good  time  seemed  come.  These 
prospects  might  be  delusive,  but  they  were  brilliant — to 
some  they  were  even  true.  At  that  epoch,  in  that  single 
month  of  June,  many  a  solid  fortune  was  realized. 

When  a  whole  province  rejoices,  the  humblest  of  its 
inhabitants  taste  a  festal  feeling  :  the  sound  of  public  bells 
rouses  the  most  secluded  abode,  as  if  with  a  call  to  be  gay. 
And  so  Caroline  Helstone  thought,  when  she  dressed  herself 
more  carefully  than  usual  on  the  day  of  this  trading  triumph, 
and  went,  attired  in  her  neatest  muslin,  to  spend  the  after- 
noon at  Fieldhead,  there  to  superintend  certain  millinery 
preparations  for  a  great  event  :  the  last  appeal  in  these 
matters  being  reserved  for  her  unimpeachable  taste.  She 
decided  on  the  wreath,  the  veil,  the  dress  to  be  worn  at  the 
altar :  she  chose  various  robes  and  fashions  for  more 
ordinary  occasions,  without  much  reference  to  the  bride's 
opinion  ;  that  lady,  indeed,  being  in  a  somewhat  imprac- 
ticable mood. 

Louis  had  presaged  difficulties,  and  he  had  found 
them  '•  in  fact,  his  mistress  had  shown  herself  exquisitely 


THE  WINDING-UP  657 

provoking ;  putting  off  her  marriage  day  by  day,  week  by 
week,  month  by  month.  At  first  coaxing  him  with  soft 
pretences  of  procrastination,  and  in  the  end  rousing  his 
whole  deliberate  but  determined  nature  to  revolt  against  her 
tyranny,  at  once  so  sweet  and  so  intolerable. 

It  had  needed  a  sort  of  tempest-shock  to  bring  her  to 
the  point ;  but  there  she  was  at  last,  fettered  to  a  fixed  day  : 
there  she  lay,  conquered  by  love,  and  bound  with  a  vow. 

Thus  vanquished  and  restricted,  she  pined,  like  any 
other  chained  denizen  of  deserts.  Her  captor  alone  could 
cheer  her  ;  his  society  only  could  make  amends  for  the  lost 
privilege  of  liberty :  in  his  absence,  she  sat  or  wandered 
alone  ;  spoke  little,  and  ate  less. 

She  furthered  no  preparations  for  her  nuptials ;  Louis 
was  himself  obliged  to  direct  all  arrangements  :  he  was 
virtually  master  of  Fieldhead,  weeks  before  he  became  so 
nominally  :  the  least  presumptuous,  the  kindest  master  that 
ever  was ;  but  with  his  lady  absolute.  She  abdicated 
without  a  word  or  a  struggle.  '  Go  to  Mr.  Moore  ;  ask  Mr. 
Moore,'  was  her  answer  when  applied  to  for  orders.  Never 
was  wooer  of  wealthy  bride  so  thoroughly  absolved  from  the 
subaltern  part ;  so  inevitably  compelled  to  assume  a  para- 
mount character. 

In  all  this,  Miss  Keeldar  partly  yielded  to  her  dis- 
position ;  but  a  remark  she  made  a  year  afterwards  proved 
that  she  partly  also  acted  on  system.  '  Louis/  she  said, 
'  would  never  have  learned  to  rule,  if  she  had  not  ceased  to 
govern  :  the  incapacity  of  the  sovereign  had  developed  the 
powers  of  the  premier.'  It  had  been  intended  that  Miss 
Helstone  should  act  as  bridesmaid  at  the  approaching 
nuptials  ;  but  Fortune  had  destined  her  another  part. 

She  came  home  in  time  to  water  her  plants.  She  had 
performed  this  little  task.  The  last  flower  attended  to  was 
a  rose-tree,  which  bloomed  in  a  quiet  green  nook  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  This  plant  had  received  the  refreshing 
shower :  she  was  now  resting  a  minute.  Near  the  wall 
stood  a  fragment  of  sculptured  stone — a  monkish  relic ; 


668  SHIRLEY 

once,  perhaps,  the  base  of  a  cross;  she  mounted  it,  that 
she  might  better  command  the  view.  She  had  still  the 
watering-pot  in  one  hand  ;  with  the  other,  her  pretty  dress 
•was  held  lightly  aside,  to  avoid  trickling  drops  :  she  gazed 
over  the  wall,  along  some  lonely  fields ;  beyond  three  dusk 
trees,  rising  side  by  side,  against  the  sky ;  beyond  a  solitary 
thorn,  at  the  head  of  a  solitary  lane  far  off :  she  surveyed 
the  dusk  moors,  where  bonfires  were  kindling  :  the  summer 
evening  was  warm  ;  the  bell-music  was  joyous ;  the  blue 
smoke  of  the  fires  looked  soft ;  their  red  flame  bright :  above 
them,  in  the  sky  whence  the  sun  had  vanished,  twinkled  a 
silver  point — the  Star  of  Love. 

Caroline  was  not  unhappy  that  evening ;  far  otherwise  : 
but  as  she  gazed  she  sighed,  and  as  she  sighed  a  hand 
circled  her,  and  rested  quietly  on  her  waist.  Caroline 
thought  she  knew  who  had  drawn  near  :  she  received  the 
touch  unstartled.  '  I  am  looking  at  Venus,  mamma :  see, 
she  is  beautiful.  How  white  her  lustre  is,  compared  with 
the  deep  red  of  the  bonfires ! '  The  answer  was  a  closer 
caress ;  and  Caroline  turned,  and  looked,  not  into  Mrs. 
Pryor's  matron  face,  but  up  at  a  dark  manly  visage.  She 
dropped  her  watering  pot,  and  stepped  down  from  the 
pedestal.  '  I  have  been  sitting  with  "  mamma  "  an  hour,' 
said  the  intruder.  '  I  have  had  a  long  conversation  with 
her.  Where,  meantime,  have  you  been?  ' 

'  To  Fieldhead.  Shirley  is  as  naughty  as  ever,  Robert : 
she  will  neither  say  Yes  nor  No  to  any  question  put.  She 
sits  alone :  I  cannot  tell  whether  she  is  melancholy  or 
nonchalant:  if  you  rouse  her,  or  scold  her,  she  gives  you  a 
look  half  wistful,  half  reckless,  which  sends  you  away  as 
queer  and  crazed  as  herself.  What  Louis  will  make  of  her, 
I  cannot  tell :  for  my  part,  if  I  were  a  gentleman,  I  think  I 
would  not  dare  undertake  her.' 

'  Never  mind  them  :  they  were  cut  out  for  each  other. 
Louis,  strange  to  say,  likes  her  all  the  better  for  these 
freaks  :  he  will  manage  her,  if  any  one  can.  She  tries  him, 
however :  he  has  had  a  stormy  courtship  for  such  a  calm 


THE  WINDING-UP 

character ;  but  you  see  it  all  ends  in  victory  for  him. 
Caroline,  I  have  sought  you  to  ask  an  audience.  Why  are 
those  bells  ringing  ? ' 

'  For  the  repeal  of  your  terrible  law ;  the  Orders  you 
hate  so  much.  You  are  pleased,  are  you  not  ?  ' 

'Yesterday  evening  at  this  time,  I  was  packing  some 
books  for  a  sea-voyage  :  they  were  the  only  possessions, 
except  some  clothes,  seeds,  roots,  and  tools,  which  I  felt 
free  to  take  with  me  to  Canada.  I  was  going  to  leave  you.' 

1  To  leave  me  ?  To  leave  me  ? '  Her  little  fingers 
fastened  on  his  arm  :  she  spoke  and  looked  affrighted. 

1  Not  now — not  now.  Examine  my  face ;  yes,  look  at 
me  well :  is  the  despair  of  parting  legible  thereon  ? '  She 
looked  into  an  illuminated  countenance,  whose  characters 
were  all  beaming,  though  the  page  itself  was  dusk  :  this  face, 
potent  in  the  majesty  of  its  traits,  shed  down  on  her  hope, 
iondness,  delight.  '  Will  the  repeal  do  you  good ;  much 
good  -  immediate  good  ? '  she  inquired. 

'  The  repeal  of  the  Orders  in  Council  saves  me.  Now  I 
shall  not  turn  bankrupt ;  now  I  shall  not  give  up  business ; 
now  I  shall  not  leave  England ;  now  I  shall  be  no  longer 
poor ;  now  I  can  pay  my  debts  ;  now  all  the  cloth  I  have  in 
my  warehouses  will  be  taken  off  my  hands,  and  commissions 
given  me  for  much  more  :  this  day  lays  for  my  fortunes  a 
broad,  firm  foundation;  on  which,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  I  can  securely  build.' 

Caroline  devoured  his  words  :  she  held  his  hand  in  hers ; 
she  drew  a  long  breath. 

1  You  are  saved  ?     Your  heavy  difficulties  are  lifted  ? ' 

1  They  are  lifted  :  I  breathe  :  I  can  act.' 

'  At  last !  Oh !  Providence  is  kind.  Thank  Him, 
Kobert.' 

'  I  do  thank  Providence.' 

'  And  I  ako,  for  your  sake  ! '     She  looked  up  devoutly. 

'  Now,  I  can  take  more  workmen  ;  give  better  wages  ;  lay 
wiser  and  more  liberal  plans ;  do  some  good  ;  be  less  selfish : 
now,  Caroline,  I  can  have  a  house — a  home  which  I  can 

»3 


660  SHIKLEY 

truly  call  mine —and  now—  He  paused;  for  his  deep 
voice  was  checked.  '  And  now,'  he  resumed — '  now  I  can 
think  of  marriage ;  now  I  can  seek  a  wife.  This  was  no 
moment  for  her  to  speak :  she  did  not  speak.  '  Will 
Caroline,  who  meekly  hopes  to  be  forgiven  as  she  forgives — 
will  she  pardon  all  I  have  made  her  suffer — all  that  long 
pain  I  have  wickedly  caused  her — all  that  sickness  of  body 
and  mind  she  owed  to  me?  Will  she  forget  what  she 
knows  of  my  poor  ambition — my  sordid  schemes?  Will 
she  let  me  expiate  these  things  ?  Will  she  suffer  me  to 
prove  that,  as  I  once  deserted  cruelly,  trifled  wantonly, 
injured  basely,  I  can  now  love  faithfully,  cherish  fondly, 
treasure  tenderly  ? ' 

His  hand  was  in  Caroline's  still :  a  gentle  pressure 
answered  him.  '  Is  Caroline  mine  ?  ' 

'  Caroline  is  yours.' 

'  I  will  prize  her :  the  sense  of  her  value  is  here,  in  my 
heart ;  the  necessity  for  her  society  is  blended  with  my  life  : 
not  more  jealous  shall  I  be  of  the  blood  whose  flow  moves 
my  pulses,  than  of  her  happiness  and  well-being.1 

1 1  love  you,  too,  Eobert,  and  will  take  faithful  care  of 
you.' 

'  Will  you  take  faithful  care  of  me  ? — faithful  care  !  as  if 
that  rose  should  promise  to  shelter  from  tempest  this  hard, 
grey  stone  ?  But  she  will  care  for  me,  in  her  way :  these 
hands  will  be  the  gentle  ministrants  of  every  comfort  I  can 
taste.  I  know  the  being  I  seek  to  entwine  with  my  own 
will  bring  me  a  solace  —  a  charity — a  purity — to  which,  of 
myself,  I  am  a  stranger.' 

Suddenly,  Caroline  was  troubled  ;  her  lip  quivered. 

'  What  flutters  my  dove  ?  '  asked  Moore,  as  she  nestled 
to,  and  then  uneasily  shrank  from  him. 

'  Poor  mamma  I  I  am  all  mamma  has :  must  I  leave 
her?' 

'Do  you  know,  I  thought  of  that  difficulty:  I  and 
"mamma  "  have  discussed  it.' 

'  Tell  me  what  you  wish— what  you  would  like— and  I 


THE  WINDING-UP  661 

will  consider  if  it  is  possible  to  consent ;  but  I  cannot  desert 
her,  even  for  you :  I  cannot  break  her  heart,  even  for  your 
sake.' 

'  She  was  faithful  when  I  was  false — was  she  not  ?  I 
never  came  near  your  sick-bed,  and  she  watched  it  cease- 
lessly.' 

'  What  must  I  do  ?    Anything  but  leave  her.' 

1  At  my  wish,  you  never  shall  leave  her.' 

1  She  may  live  very  near  us  ? ' 

'With  us— only  she  will  have  her  own  rooms  and 
servant :  for  this  she  stipulates  herself.' 

'  You  know  she  has  an  income,  that,  with  her  habits, 
makes  her  quite  independent  ?  ' 

'  She  told  me  that,  with  a  gentle  pride  that  reminded  me 
of  somebody  else.' 

'  She  is  not  at  all  interfering,  and  incapable  of  gossip.' 

'  I  know  her,  Gary  :  but  if — instead  of  being  the  personi- 
fication of  reserve  and  discretion — she  were  something  quite 
opposite,  I  should  not  fear  her.' 

'  Yet  she  will  be  your  mother-in-law  ?  '  The  speaker 
gave  an  arch  little  nod  :  Moore  smiled.  '  Louis  and  I  are 
not  of  the  order  of  men  who  fear  their  mothers-in-law, 
Gary  :  our  foes  never  have  been,  nor  will  be,  those  of  our 
own  household.  I  doubt  not,  my  mother-in-law  will  make 
much  of  me.' 

'  That  she  will — in  her  quiet  way,  you  know.  She  is  not 
demonstrative ;  and  when  you  see  her  silent,  or  even  cool, 
you  must  not  fancy  her  displeased — it  is  only  a  manner  she 
has.  Be  sure  to  let  me  interpret  for  her,  whenever  she 
puzzles  you ;  always  believe  my  account  of  the  matter, 
Robert." 

'  Oh,  implicitly  !  Jesting  apart,  I  feel  that  she  and  I  will 
suit — on  ne  peut  mieux.  Hortense,  you  know,  is  exquisitely 
susceptible — in  our  French  sense  of  the  wrord — and  not, 
perhaps,  always  reasonable  in  her  requirements :  yet  — 
dear,  honest  girl — I  never  painfully  wounded  her  feelings, 
or  had  a  serious  quarrel  with  her,  in  my  life.' 


662  SHIBLEY 

I  No :    you    are   most  generously    considerate — indeed, 
most  tenderly  indulgent  to  her ;  and  you  will  be  considerate 
with  mamma.     You  are  a  gentleman  all  through,  Robert,  to 
the  bone,  and  nowhere  so  perfect  a  gentleman  as  at  your 
own  fireside.' 

'  An  eulogium  I  like :  it  is  very  sweet.  I  am  well 
pleased  my  Caroline  should  view  me  in  this  light.' 

'  Mamma  just  thinks  of  you  as  I  do.' 

'  Not  quite,  I  hope  ?  ' 

'  She  does  not  want  to  marry  you — don't  be  vain ;  but 
she  said  to  me  the  other  day,  "  My  dear,  Mr.  Moore  has 
pleasing  manners ;  he  is  one  of  the  few  gentlemen  I  have 
seen  who  combine  politeness  with  an  air  of  sincerity."  ' 

'  "  Mamma"  is  rather  a  misanthropist,  is  she  not?  Not 
the  best  opinion  of  the  sterner  sex  ?  ' 

'  She  forbears  to  judge  them  as  a  whole,  but  she  has  her 
exceptions  whom  she  admires.  Louis  and  Mr.  Hall,  and,  of 
late — yourself.  She  did  not  like  you  once :  I  knew  that 
because  she  would  never  speak  of  you.  But,  Robert — 

'  Well,  what  now  ?     What  is  the  new  thought  ? ' 

'  You  have  not  seen  my  uncle  yet  ?  ' 

I 1  have :    "  mamma "    called   him   into   the   room.     He 
consents  conditionally  :  if  I  prove  that  I  can  keep  a  wife,  I 
may  have  her  ;  and  I  can  keep  her  better  than  he  thinks — 
better  than  I  choose  to  boast.' 

'  If  you  get  rich,  you  will  do  good  with  your  money, 
Robert  ?  ' 

'  I  will  do  good ;  you  shall  tell  me  how  :  indeed,  I  have 
some  schemes  of  my  own,  which  you  and  I  will  talk  about 
on  our  own  hearth  one  day.  I  have  seen  the  necessity  of 
doing  good :  I  have  learned  the  downright  folly  of  being 
selfish.  Caroline,  I  foresee  what  I  will  now  foretell.  This 
war  must  ere  long  draw  to  a  close :  Trade  is  likely  to 
prosper  for  some  years  to  come :  there  may  be  a  brief  mis- 
understanding between  England  and  America,  but  that  will 
not  last.  What  would  you  think  if,  one  day — perhaps  ere 
another  ten  years  elapse — Louis  and  I  divide  Briarfield 


THE   WINDING-UP  663 

parish  betwixt  us  ?  Louis,  at  any  rate,  is  certain  of  power 
and  property  :  he  will  not  bury  his  talents  :  he  is  a  benevo- 
lent fellow,  and  has,  besides,  an  intellect  of  his  own  of  no 
trifling  calibre.  His  mind  is  slow  but  strong :  it  must  work  : 
it  may  work  deliberately,  but  it  will  work  well.  He  will  be 
made  magistrate  of  the  district— Shirley  says  he  shall :  she 
would  proceed  impetuously  and  prematurely  to  obtain  for 
him  this  dignity,  if  he  would  let  her,  but  he  will  not ;  as 
usual,  he  will  be  in  no  haste  :  ere  he  has  been  master  of 
Fieldhead  a  year,  all  the  district  will  feel  his  quiet  influence, 
and  acknowledge  his  unassuming  superiority :  a  magistrate 
is  wanted — they  will,  in  time,  invest  him  with  the  office 
voluntarily  and  unreluctantly  Everybody  admires  his  future 
wife :  and  everybody  will,  in  time,  like  him :  he  is  of  the 
"  pate  "  generally  approved,  "  bon  comme  le  pain  " — daily 
bread  for  the  most  fastidious  ;  good  for  the  infant  and  the 
aged,  nourishing  for  the  poor,  wholesome  for  the  rich. 
Shirley,  in  spite  of  her  whims  and  oddities,  her  dodges  and 
delays,  has  an  infatuated  fondness  for  him  :  she  will  one  day 
see  him  as  universally  beloved  as  even  sJie  could  wish  :  he 
will  also  be  universally  esteemed,  considered,  consulted, 
depended  on — too  much  so:  his  advice  will  be  always 
judicious,  his  help  always  good-natured — erelong,  both  will 
be  in  inconvenient  request :  he  will  have  to  impose  restric- 
tions. As  for  me,  if  I  succeed  as  I  intend  to  do,  my 
success  will  add  to  his  and  Shirley's  income :  I  can  double 
the  value  of  their  mill-property  :  I  can  line  yonder  barren 
Hollow  with  lines  of  cottages,  and  rows  of  cottage- 
gardens ' 

1  Robert !     And  root  up  the  copse  ? ' 

1  The  copse  shall  be  firewood  ere  five  years  elapse :  the 
beautiful  wild  ravine  shall  be  a  smooth  descent ;  the  green 
natural  terrace  shall  be  a  paved  street :  there  shall  be 
cottages  in  the  dark  ravine,  and  cottages  on  the  lonely 
slopes :  the  rough  pebbled  track  shall  be  an  even,  firm, 
broad,  black,  sooty  road,  bedded  with  the  cinders  from  my 
mill:  and  my  mill,  Caroline — my  mill  shall  fill  its  present  yard.' 


664  SHIRLEY 

'  Horrible !  You  will  change  our  blue  hill-country  air 
into  the  Stilbro'  smoke  atmosphere.' 

'  I  will  pour  the  waters  of  Pactolus  through  the  valley  of 
Briarfield.' 

'  I  like  the  beck  a  thousand  times  better.' 

1 1  will  get  an  act  for  enclosing  Nunnely  Common,  and 
parcelling  it  out  into  farms.' . 

1  Stilbro'  Moor,  however,  defies  you,  thank  Heaven !  What 
can  you  grow  in  Bilberry  Moss!  What  will  flourish  on 
Eushedge  ? ' 

'  Caroline,  the  houseless,  the  starving,  the  unemployed, 
shall  come  to  Hollow's-mill  from  far  and  near  ;  and  Joe 
Scott  shall  give  them  work,  and  Louis  Moore,  Esq.,  shall  let 
them  a  tenement,  and  Mrs.  Gill  shall  mete  them  a  portion 
till  the  first  pay-day.' 

She  smiled  up  in  his  face. 

1  Such  a  Sunday-school  as  you  will  have,  Gary !  such 
collections  as  you  will  get !  such  a  day-school  as  you  and 
Shirley,  and  Miss  Ainley  will  have  to  manage  between  you ! 
The  mill  shall  find  salaries  for  a  master  and  mistress, 
and  the  Squire  or  the  Clothier  shall  give  a  treat  once  a 
quarter.'  She  mutely  offered  a  kiss,  an  offer  taken 
unfair  advantage  of,  to  the  extortion  of  about  a  hundred 
kisses.  '  Extravagant  day-dreams  !  '  said  Moore,  with  a  sigh 
and  smile,  '  yet  perhaps  we  may  realise  some  of  them. 
Meantime,  the  dew  is  falling :  Mrs.  Moore,  I  shall  take 
you  in.' 

It  is  August :  the  bells  clash  out  again,  not  only  through 
Yorkshire  but  through  England  :  from  Spain,  the  voice  of  a 
trumpet  has  sounded  long:  it  now  waxes  louder  and  louder: 
it  proclaims  Salamanca  won.  This  night  is  Briarfield  to  be 
illuminated.  On  this  day  the  Fieldhead  tenantry  dine 
together  ;  the  Hollow's-mill  work-people  will  be  assembled 
for  a  like  festal  purpose ;  the  schools  have  a  grand  treat. 
This  morning  there  were  two  marriages  solemnized  in 
Briarfield  church, — Louis  Gerard  Moore,  Esq.,  late  of 


THE  WINDING-UP  665 

Antwerp,  to  Shirley,  daughter  of  the  late  Charles  Cave 
Keeldar,  Esq.,  of  Fieldhead :  Robert  Gerard  Moore,  Esq.,  of 
Hollow's-mill,  to  Caroline,  niece  of  the  Rev.  Matthewson 
Helstone,  M.A.,  Rector  of  Briarfield. 

The  ceremony,  in  the  first  instance,  was  performed  by 
Mr.  Helstone  ;  Hiram  Yorke,  Esq.,  of  Briarmains,  giving  the 
bride  away.  In  the  second  instance,  Mr.  Hall,  Vicar  of 
Nunnely,  officiated.  Amongst  the  bridal  train,  the  two  most 
noticeable  personages  were  the  youthful  bridesmen,  Henry 
Sympson  and  Martin  Yorke. 

I  suppose  Robert  Moore's  prophecies  were,  partially,  at 
least,  fulfilled.  The  other  day  I  passed  up  the  Hollow, 
which  tradition  says  was  once  green,  and  lone,  and  wild  ; 
and  there  I  saw  the  manufacturer's  day-dreams  embodied  in 
substantial  stone  and  brick  and  ashes — the  cinder-black 
highway,  the  cottages,  and  the  cottage-gardens ;  there  I  saw 
a  mighty  mill,  and  a  chimney,  ambitious  as  the  tower  of 
Babel.  I  told  my  old  housekeeper  when  I  came  home 
where  I  had  been.  '  Ay  ! '  said  she  ;  '  this  world  has  queer 
changes.  I  can  remember  the  old  mill  being  built — the  very 
first  it  was  in  all  the  district ;  and  then,  I  can  remember 
it  being  pulled  down,  and  going  with  my  lake-lasses 
(companions)  to  see  the  foundation-stone  of  the  new  one  laid  : 
the  two  Mr.  Moores  made  a  great  stir  about  it ;  they  were 
there,  and  a  deal  of  fine  folk  beside,  and  both  their  ladies  ;  very 
bonnie  and  grand  they  looked  ;  but  Mrs.  Louis  was  the  grand- 
est, she  always  wore  such  handsome  dresses  :  Mrs.  Robert 
was  quieter-like.  Mrs.  Louis  smiled  when  she  talked  :  she 
had  a  real,  happy,  glad,  good-natured  look  ;  but  she  had 
een  that  pierced  a  body  through :  there  is  no  such  ladies 
now-a-days.' 

'  What  was  the  Hollow  like  then,  Martha  ? ' 

'Different  to  what  it  is  now;  but  I  can  tell  of  it  clean 
different  again:  when  there  was  neither  mill,  nor  cot,  nor 
hall,  except  Fieldhead,  within  two  miles  of  it.  I  can  tell, 
one  summer-evening,  fifty  years  syne,  my  mother  coming 
running  in  just  at  the  edge  of  dark,  almost  fleyed  out  of  her 


666  SHIRLEY 

wits,  saying,  she  had  seen  a  fairish  (fairy)  in  Fieldhead 
Hollow  ;  and  that  was  the  last  fairish  that  ever  was  seen  on 
this  country  side  (though  they've  been  heard  within  these 
forty  years).  A  lonesome  spot  it  was — and  a  bonnie  spot — 
full  of  oak-trees  and  nut-trees.  It  is  altered  now.' 

The  story  is  told.  I  think  I  now  see  the  judicious  reader 
putting  on  his  spectacles  to  look  for  the  moral.  It  would  be 
an  insult  to  his  sagacity  to  offer  directions.  I  only  say,  God 
speed  him  in  the  quest ! 


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